Arrows and Impalas
by Aggie2011
Summary: When 13 year old Clint Barton is sent to Sonny's Home for Boys, he meets Dean Winchester. In their shared time there, they forge a friendship that lasts the rest of their lives. This is a series of looks into that friendship over the years. Ongoing.*Vantage Point Universe*No Slash*Co-written with Arlothia*
1. 1995

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I also don't own Supernatural or any of the characters affiliated with **them**. _

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Hi there! I know it's not been long since my last posting, so SURPRISE! This is a series of little oneshots that I originally posted on my tumblr - under the username_ **aggie2011whoop** _\- just for fun. A good friend of mine, who's also one of my betas, tag teamed this series with me :D Her username is_ **Arlothia** _and she's awesome. I did this first part, she the second, me the third and so on. We've only got the first few parts ready for posting, so look for more later today! This is my first attempt at writing in the Supernatural 'verse and writing Dean, so forgive anything that seems OOC for him. I've been a fan of Supernatural for the last 10 years so I'm kind of excited to be working in that 'verse for the first time._

 _Second, the fanfiction contest I entered was extended. It originally was supposed to end last week, but the voting got extended to Wednesday (28th) at midnight pacific time. MANY of you have already turned out to vote and I thank all of you SO MUCH. The voting is finally in the homestretch so I'm asking anyone that hasn't voted that has a spare minute to please go cast a vote for "What No One Else Sees". It has a 3 vote lead last time I checked but I'd really like to extend that because it's been back and forth with the other top story for the past week. To vote, go to the link:_

 _inkitt dot com / fandom_

 _It says the contest is closed for submissions, but voting is still going on. You guys know I don't ask for this type of thing ever, and I won't ask again. Consider this fun little crossover series a thank you for your support and your votes. *hugs*_

 _Finally, while this IS written in the Vantage Point Universe (if your new to my Avengers work, feel free to check out the rest of my works), it isn't, as of right now, actually part of VPU cannon. Meaning that it's kind of an AU to the VPU...so an AAU of sorts...anyway, enjoy!_

* * *

 _ **Premise of the SPN/VPU crossover** : When Clint was 13, he was picked up by the cops for truancy while the Carnival was traveling through New York State. He's sent to "Sonny's Home for Boys" and since nobody at the Carnival can prove they're his legal guardian and Barney is on a venue scouting trip in another state. Zane and Brit have no choice but to leave Clint at Sonny's while Marvi scrambles to use his contacts to get fake guardianship papers made. Brit warns Clint not to get himself into more trouble by running away. A couple of days into his stay, 16 year old Dean Winchester is brought to Sonny's after being picked up for stealing food (as seen in the Supernatural episode "Bad Boys")(I acknowledge that the years don't line up, but I'm just gonna roll with it) These are a few snap shots of their time together at Sonny's._

* * *

 _It was a farm, and the guy who ran it – Sonny – he, uh, you know, he looked after me.  
_ **Dean Winchester, "Bad Boys", Season 9 Episode 7**

* * *

 _1995_

* * *

Dean rubbed his wrists, still feeling the ghost of the handcuffs even though Sonny had removed them at least twenty minutes ago. The older man had given him lunch and then hustled him out towards the barn.

"Stall mucking."

That's what Sonny had called it. It was supposed to 'build character' and 'teach discipline'. Dean was pretty sure it was just an excuse for free, state-funded labor.

"This," Sonny shoved a shovel at him, "is a shovel." Then he pointed at a pile of dirty, soiled hay. "That is horse shit." He gave Dean a smirk and clapped him on the shoulder. "Use the first to get rid of the last. Any questions?"

Dean opened his mouth to tell Sonny just what he could do with his shovel and his shit, but was surprised into silence by a small pebble hitting him square in the back of the head.

"What the hell?" Dean spun around, hand going to rub the sore spot where the rock had hit and shovel rising defensively.

"Clint!" Sonny growled. "Get down out of those rafters before you break your neck!"

Dean lifted his gaze, searching the rafters now instead of the area right behind him. Sure enough, in the shadows, he saw a figure shift. A chuckle floated down to them as the small figure moved from one rafter to the next.

"Why don't you come up here and make me, Sonny?"

The voice was young, younger than Dean, but there was no mistaking the tone of sarcasm – it was, after all, a tone Dean was intimately familiar with.

"Boy, one day I'm gonna figure out how you get up there, then you'll be in for it."

Dean looked back at Sonny, surprised to see the older man smiling and to hear no hint of anger in his voice. Another chuckle floated down from the rafters, but as far as Dean could tell, 'Clint' wasn't planning on coming down.

"Don't mind him. He's half monkey." Sonny told Dean with a smirk. "Only been here 48 hours and already found every possible way to climb every possible thing in this place."

Dean looked back up at the rafters, but couldn't see the shadowed figure anymore.

"You just ate, so I don't imagine you'll be hungry until dinner – which is at 5:30." Sonny started towards the door, calling up at the rafters as he went, "Clint, either get your scrawny butt down here and help him or leave him be. No more launching projectiles."

Then Sonny was gone.

Dean weighed the shovel in his hands, searched the rafters one more time and then turned to the stall.

He felt his nose wrinkle of its own accord.

"This has to violate some child labor law."

With a sigh he got to work.

He felt the eyes on him the whole time. The mysterious 'Clint' watching him from the safety of the shadows. When the stall was finally clean, Dean set the shovel aside with a sigh.

He heard it then…wood creaking. He raised his eyes without moving his head and searched the shadows.

There.

He could see him. A small figure creeping around.

"You know, if I didn't know any better I'd load you full of rocksalt thinking you were a ghost…you're definitely being creepy enough."

The figure froze. Then abruptly shifted, swinging down to hang from the rafters by his hands. He just hung there, like the monkey Sonny had accused him of being, and stared at Dean.

"Nice of you to stay hidden until all the actual work was done."

The blonde boy cocked his head.

"What'd you do?" he asked bluntly.

"Stole something."

"Stole what?"

"A car."

Clint's eyes narrowed. Dean's narrowed right back. He knew how to read people well enough to recognize the same skill in someone else. Clint was practically looking into his soul, his gaze was so penetrating.

"You're lying," the younger boy finally stated.

"Prove it." Dean issued the challenge with a cocked eyebrow and a slight smirk.

Clint just stared at him with that intense gaze of his and then tilted his head in a show of surrender. Then without another word he swung back up into the shadows. Dean watched him scurry around in the rafters until he was just behind Dean. Then he just jumped.

"Holy -!" Dean took a startled step forward only to freeze when Clint acrobatically flipped through the air, tucked into an easy roll upon landing, and then casually flowed up to his feet like it was just an everyday thing to go jumping out of rafters.

Clint stood then and stuck his hand out.

"I'm Clint."

Dean found himself smirking. The kid was a daredevil, that was practically a certainty. Dean could appreciate that. After all…he could relate.

"Dean."

* * *

Dean quietly pushed his way into the barn, flashlight lighting the way in front of him.

"Clint?"

For a moment nothing but the sounds of the wind blowing outside greeted him. Then he heard wood creak.

"Dean?"

Dean angled the flashlight up as a now familiar voice drifted down from the rafters. But Clint was too deep in the shadows, Dean couldn't see him, not with the crappy flashlight he'd grabbed.

"Sonny sent me to try and talk you into coming inside." Dean spoke to the direction Clint's voice had come from. "It's supposed to storm."

"I'll be fine."

The response was predictable. Clint tended to brush off the worry others tried to direct at him.

Dean blew out a breath – looked like they were doing this the hard way – and jogged to the back corner of the barn.

He'd been here a week now. Yesterday, Clint had deemed him worthy to know his path up to the rafters. Dean had only barely made it up there himself yesterday and had nearly broken his neck coming down. He didn't know how Clint made it look so easy.

He paused once he was up in the rafters to catch his breath and steady his balance. Then he shined the flashlight around until he caught sight of a dark lump in the shadows.

Clint, as was usual at night, was sprawled out across one of the rafters like a jungle cat on a tree branch. He looked perfectly comfortable and was watching Dean in vague amusement.

"You're so slow at climbing."

"I wasn't born with monkey in my DNA like some people." Dean groused as he made his way closer. He settled on the rafter across from Clint and shined the flashlight in his face, smirking when Clint winced and yelled in annoyance. "Why do you sleep up here anyway? Doesn't look all that comfortable."

"It's fine."

"That didn't answer my question…like in _any_ way."

Clint pushed himself up to sitting so he and Dean were facing each other, knees separated by about a foot of open air.

"I don't like this place."

"Why? Sonny's great, food's good. Yeah, we gotta work sometimes, but it's not that bad."

Clint just shook his head and looked away. When he looked back, it was almost like a mask had settled on his face.

"I work at a carnival, you know."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the abrupt subject change.

"A carnival? You're a carnie?" He couldn't help it, he laughed.

"I'm a performer. I do tricks," Clint corrected firmly.

Dean tilted his head curiously. In the week they'd known each other, Clint had revealed almost nothing about himself beyond his affinity for climbing and his wicked good aim with…well, anything. Dean had a feeling that right now, the only reason for the candor was to divert Dean from their previous conversation topic. Familiar with diversionary tactics for his own reasons, Dean allowed it.

"What kind of tricks?" he asked.

"Archery." The grin that split Clint's face then wasn't contrived – it was nothing but pure joy.

"Like a bow and arrow?"

"Nice, you can define archery."

Dean rolled his eyes. Clint's sarcastic tongue was something he hadn't bothered to hide either.

"I'm really good with knives too…really good," Clint added with a smirk.

Dean felt his own mouth mirror the expression.

"I'm pretty good with a knife myself."

Clint's eyebrow cocked in challenge.

"I never miss," the younger boy insisted arrogantly.

Dean heard thunder rumble outside and felt the draft of cool wind blow through the barn. He could create a target in the bunk room in no time and he'd take the lecture about throwing sharp objects if it got Clint inside for the night. So he met Clint's gaze and issued his challenge,

"Prove it."

* * *

Dean watched Clint talk to a dark haired man in the driveway. Only they weren't really using voices. They were using their hands.

This was Brit.

Or that's what Clint had nearly gasped in relief when the man arrived a few minutes ago. He'd rushed out into the driveway so fast he'd nearly tripped on the stairs. Dean had watched in shock as Clint, who as far as Dean could tell never let anyone touch him, met the stranger with a bear hug to rival Sammy's best.

Then they'd started signing with their hands and Dean wished he'd payed attention when Sammy went through his sign language phase last year.

* * *

'What do you mean another week?' Clint signed.

'Marvi says the papers will be ready then and we can get you out.' Brit replied calmly.

'Where's Barney? Isn't he back yet?' Clint asked.

Brit sighed and rubbed his eyes before responding.

'He's busy.'

Clint felt his shoulders drop.

'You mean he found out I got picked up by the cops and he figures staying here serves me right.'

'Clint…'

'I don't want to stay here, Brit. I don't like it here.'

Brit's gaze hardened.

'Has someone hurt you?' Brit's gaze traveled up to the house angrily.

'No.' Clint insisted, touching Brit's arm to get his attention back. 'Just bad memories.'

Other than a night last week, when Dean had talked him into target practice in the bunk room, Clint had slept in the rafters every night to escape those bad memories. Even that night, though, he hadn't slept. He and Dean had stayed up all night, throwing knives and talking.

And Dean liked to talk. When he'd first let it slip what his 'family business' was, Clint had been fairly certain he was kidding. But a few joking questions met with deadly serious answers, had convinced him pretty quickly that Dean wasn't kidding. Ghosts, and a whole bunch of other terrifying crap was real. Dean and his family, they protected people… _saved_ people.

Clint had found himself wondering what it would be like to have a job like that.

A hand gently squeezed his elbow, drawing his attention back to Brit.

'Just another week, Clint. I'll come get you as soon as Marvi gets the papers, I promise.'

Clint nodded. He could do another week. Dean…Dean made staying here easier.

He and Brit said goodbye and he watched the man get into his car and leave.

Clint didn't go back into the house for the lunch he'd left, he headed to the barn instead.

The sound of a banging screen door alerted him a few moments before jogging footsteps brought Dean to his side.

"No moping, buzz kill…come on, Sonny said we could go to the lake as long as I don't let you drown."

Clint grinned.

"Race you." He took off.

"You cheater!" He heard Dean take off in pursuit.

* * *

Clint had never seen the scars on his back but for one quick look in the mirror when he first came to Carson's, back when they'd still been healing. He'd never looked again after that. Because of that, he often forgot they were there. And when he stripped off his shirt to prepare to dive in the lake, he didn't give the scars a thought.

It wasn't until he heard Dean's curse that he remembered them.

A hand grabbed his arm and jerked him around.

"Who did that to you?"

Clint pulled his arm out of Dean's grip roughly and forced himself to take a deep breath. Brit had told him back in the beginning, not to give the scars power, unless he channeled it into something positive. He hadn't learned how to do _that_ yet…but he had at least learned not to feel fear every time he thought about them.

"It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing." Dean's voice was angry and heavy with something that sounded like concern.

"It was a long time ago," Clint insisted. It wasn't that long…only three years…sometimes it felt like yesterday. _But,_ on the good days...on the good days it felt like a lifetime ago.

"Clint, these guys at Carson's, did they do it?" Dean demanded sharply, green eyes intense and worried all at once. Clint knew in that moment, without a doubt, that if he said 'yes' Dean would do something about it.

"No, it was before Carson's." Clint admitted quietly.

"Who? Give me a name."

"No."

"Tell me who did it so I can go kill them" Dean ordered.

"No!"

"Dammit Sammy!"

Clint drew back, startled. Dean looked just as shocked.

"I'm not your brother, Dean. I'm not Sam." But for the first time he found himself wishing he was. That he had someone like Dean willing to do whatever it took to keep him safe. Brit cared about him, would defend him, but Brit didn't have it in him to cross that line. It scared Clint sometimes to think that maybe _he_ did. That maybe, if he ever got the chance, he'd take his own revenge on Phillip Jacobs.

Dean deflated.

"Doesn't mean you don't need looking after too."

Clint smirked, clawing at his defenses and building them back up.

"I look after myself."

And he did and always would.

He didn't understand why Dean suddenly looked like he was the only person in the world who actually got it.

What he didn't know, until much later in his life, was that Dean 'got it' because Dean had always had to look out for himself too.

* * *

"I'm serious, Clint, you ever need anything, ghostly or otherwise, call this number." Dean handed a slip of paper to Clint as the blonde boy stuffed his slingshot into his back pocket. "That's my Uncle Bobby's place. He can find me and I'll come help you out."

Clint took the paper and shoved it in his pocket with the sling shot. He looked past Dean to where Brit waited in the driveway along with a pretty blonde girl Dean was dying to hit on. But he didn't think Robin would understand.

"Take care of yourself, Dean. And ask Robin to the dance, she'll say yes."

Dean smirked.

"Of course she will, it's me asking, isn't it?"

Clint just rolled his eyes and then gave Dean a serious look.

"I may not be so easy to find…don't got a phone number to call. But if you ever need me, send up a hawk-symbol or something…light a fire for a smoke signal…draw a purple X on your window…" Clint smirked and shrugged. "I'll come riding in a white horse and save you."

Dean laughed.

"Take care of yourself, Clint."

Clint smirked.

"Always."

* * *

 _End of Part 1!_

 _Hope you enjoyed it! The future parts jump around in the timeline, but there'll be a year labeling where we are in the timeline. It doesn't exactly match the VPU timeline, but as I said its essentially an AU of the VPU. :D_

 _Look for Part 2 and 3 later today and please go vote!_

 _inkitt dot com / fandom_


	2. October 2005

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I also don't own Supernatural or any of the characters affiliated with **them**._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Hi again! This is Part 2 to the SPN/VPU crossover! This part is written by_ **Arlothia** _, not me. She and I switched by and forth writing the parts :D She did a great job though, so enjoy!_

 _Second, if you haven't voted yet for WNOES in the inkitt contest please do! it ends tomorrow night!_

 _To vote, go to the link:_

 _inkitt dot com / fandom_

 _It says the contest is closed for submissions, but voting is still going on._

 _Finally, while this IS written in the Vantage Point Universe (if your new to my Avengers work, feel free to check out the rest of my works), it isn't, as of right now, actually part of VPU cannon. Meaning that it's kind of an AU to the VPU...so an AAU of sorts...anyway, as I said, this is written by_ **Arlothia** _! Enjoy!_

* * *

 _A Kitsune. It's pretty rare. Dad and I hunted one back in '98._  
 **Dean Winchester, "The Girl Next Door", Season 7 Episode 3**

* * *

 _October 2005_

* * *

Clint sat at the base of a tree overlooking Putnam Lake. His bike was parked a few feet away just off the road. He stared out at the shimmering water as it reflected the fall trees highlighted by the sinking sun. He should be headed back soon. He had been gone since early morning, but after a pretty crappy day yesterday and a particularly nasty nightmare the following night, Clint felt he needed to get away for a while.

He sighed and began to stand up when he heard it. The crack of a twig and slight rustling in the bushes to his right had him whipping around to see what had made the noise, hand already around the hilt of the knife he kept hidden on himself at all times. He could feel the tingle on the back of his neck that told him he was being watched but whoever, or whatever, was out there was completely silent. Unwilling to go charging blind to face the unknown, Clint cautiously made his way to his Ducati, knife still in hand. If whoever was watching him made a move he'd be ready.

But he wasn't ready when a form burst out of the bushes, closer than he thought it had been, and come rushing at him with claws swiping at his head with all of the ferocity of a wild animal. But this was no animal, or at least not one Clint had ever seen. It seemed almost…human. But that didn't make any sense. It had to be some sort of animal. He blocked the claws with his arm and received five long gashes that _really_ stung. Ignoring the pain, he swung his knife around and felt it slice through whatever was attacking him. It backed off and a moment later a gunshot resounded in the air.

Clint felt the bullet whizz past his head and hit flesh. When the creature cried out in pain and stumbled back a few steps, Clint seized the opportunity and threw his knife at the thing, hitting it right in the heart. It collapsed, unmoving, on the ground and Clint blinked. Holy crap. It was a person, or almost one at least. Its nails were claw-like, at least three inches long, and its eyes were yellow with long, narrow pupils like an animal's. What the hell?

"Hey, are you okay?"

Clint turned his focus on the source of those words. A man, taller than himself and slightly older, was walking towards him. His gun was still out and ready but pointed towards the ground. Still, Clint wasn't taking any chances. When the man got closer and his eyes switched from him to the…thing Clint had just killed, the archer struck out at him, taking the gun from his hands and then kicking the feet out from under him. Clint came down on him so one knee was on the stranger's sternum, the other pinning one arm to the ground while his right hand took care of the other, and his newly acquired gun was pointed at his face.

The man stretched out his hands as best he could to show he wasn't a threat.

"Hey, easy man," he said, struggling to breath with the weight on top of him. "I just saved your life there, remember?"

"I remember you nearly blowing my brains out and then me taking care of that guy."

"Guy? Oho buddy, you're obviously new to this game. Trust me, that was no regular guy and if it wasn't for me it would have torn you to shreds."

Clint smirked and huffed a laugh. "I can look after myself."

Suddenly the stranger's face changed. He looked almost confused as he stared into Clint's face, then over at the knife buried in the monster's chest, and back again. "Do I know you?"

Clint looked at the man more closely and then saw the amulet hanging around his neck. No way…

"Dean?"

Recognition dawned in the older man's eyes. "Holy crap! Clint?"

Clint stood up and offered a hand down to his old friend.

"How long's it been?" he asked as he took the hand. "Like, what? Ten years?"

"Just about. You still chasing ghosts?" Clint handed him back his gun.

Dean took it. "And other things." He gestured towards the dead creature on the ground. "You still a carnie?" he asked with a slightly goofy grin.

Clint scowled but there wasn't much heat behind it. "I _told_ you I was a performer! And no, I stepped away from that life a long time ago."

Dean saw the flash of pain ghost across Clint's eyes and suddenly remembered the scars he had seen on the young boy's back when Sonny let them go swimming in the lake.

"Did something happen?"

Clint recognized the defensiveness from the first time they had this conversation. Always the protective older brother. If only all older brothers were like that.

He shook his head. "Yes, but before you go on the rampage it wasn't anything they did. It was someone else. Someone I thought I could trust." Clint shrugged. "I just needed to get away from everything, start something new."

Dean nodded. He understood. "Sam felt the same way. He actually went off to college a few years back, left the hunting life behind."

"You guys still in touch?"

"Nah." Dean shook his head and looked down at the ground, feet shuffling in the grass. Clint could tell this was a sore point for him. Great. Now both of them had brother issues. "It's pretty much just me and my dad now, though I've been going solo on a lot of jobs lately."

Clint remembered realizing years ago that Dean got what it was like to look after yourself and suddenly it became clear how he understood. He had no one looking out for him, not even his dad anymore by the sounds of it. Even back when they first met, when he had his dad and brother with him, a lot of responsibility had fallen on Dean and he had to take his life in his own hands if he wanted to make sure he'd be there for the people who needed him. They both lived lives full of danger and death and the only way to make sure you came out alive was to do whatever it took to survive. Dean was a lot like him, only in a more supernatural sense.

Dean's words brought him out of his thoughts and back to the topic at hand.

"What about Barney?"

Clint didn't trust himself to speak, instead simply shook his head, hand absently going to the scar on his chest. He suddenly felt the need to change the subject.

"Hey, did you ever ask that girl out? What was her name? Karen?"

"Robin," Dean corrected. "And yeah, I did. But my dad came to pick me up before we could go out."

"That sucks."

"Tell me about it."

"Any other girls?" Clint asked.

Dean shook his head. "Doesn't mix that well with this line of work."

Again, Clint understood perfectly. You never knew which mission was going to be your last and traveling so much really didn't make for a great basis in a relationship.

Clint walked over towards the dead body to retrieve his knife. It looked like a normal human now. Its eyes were closed and the claws had returned to regular finger nails. He almost wondered if had imagined them, chalked it up to a trick the dimming sunlight on the water, but the sudden flare of pain from his arm told him otherwise. Those scratches would probably need stitches. Phil was not going to be pleased and he had no idea what he was going to tell him.

"So what the hell is this thing anyway?" Clint asked as Dean joined him around the body.

"Kitsune."

Clint frowned. "A fox?"

Dean looked at him. "You speak Japanese?"

Clint shrugged. "I traveled a lot after I left Carson's."

Dean accepted the answer and went on. "It's sort of like a fox version of a werewolf. The only way to kill it is to stab it in the heart, but I guess you figured that one out. Congrats on your first monster kill by the way."

Clint inclined his head at the praise and then reached down and cleaned his knife on the Kitsune's shirt before replacing it in its sheath.

"I figured that stabbing anything in the heart would kill it."

Dean chuckled. "You'd be surprised. Vampires? You have to behead it. That's your safest bet."

"I'll keep that in mind. So are there any more of these Kitsunes around?"

Dean shook his head. "They don't travel in packs and they're rare enough as it is. So all we have to do now is burn the body." He took lighter fluid and a packet of matches out of his pocket.

"Seriously?"

"Unless you want someone to find it and trace it back to you with the blood on its hand." He started to empty the flammable liquid over the Kitsune. "How is your arm, anyway?" He struck a match, lit the rest of them, and then tossed the packet onto the body, engulfing it in flames.

Clint took a step back from the blaze and shrugged off the question. "I've had worse." He paused, suddenly remembering something he had heard about werewolves. "I'm not going to turn into something like that, am I?"

Dean laughed. "No, you're good. Kitsune's can't do that and it's usually a bite that changes people, not a scratch, if the monster does that sort of thing. I can patch you up if you want. I've gotten pretty good with a needle and thread over the years."

"So have I," Clint smirked. "I'll take care of it when I get back home, but thanks."

Something close to longing crossed Dean's features at the mention of home. Clint had a feeling the only sort of home he had was on four wheels.

"Where is that for you?"

"Here in New York. I should actually be heading back now. I'll be missed."

"Family?"

"In every way but blood."

Dean nodded in understanding. If Bobby had taught him one thing it was that family didn't end in blood.

"You should at least wrap it up," he offered. "I have some clean bandages in the car so you don't bleed out on your way back.

Clint nodded. "I wouldn't say no to that."

They headed back up to the road where their vehicles were parked.

"You have a Ducati?" Dean asked, jealousy and awe slipping through his tone as he allowed his gaze to sweep over the motorcycle, taking in its sleek lines like he was staring at a curvaceous woman.

"Yep," Clint nodded, putting a hand almost possessively on his bike. "And this must be the Impala you couldn't shut up about. I can see why. Man, what a classic." He walked towards it as Dean opened the trunk and searched inside for the bandages.

"Yeah, Baby has been through a lot but she still keeps on going." Dean brought out the bandages and began wrapping Clint's outstretched arm while the younger man looked at all the weapons and other sundry items in the hidden compartment under the trunk, held up by a shotgun.

"Quite the arsenal you've got there," Clint noted.

Dean's lips quirked into a smile. "Well, you pick up a few things here and there when you go hunting monsters. Sometimes a simple knife or bullet won't do the job."

He patted Clint's shoulder after securing the bandage on his friends arm, a quick thanks coming from the archer as he tested his range of motion with the newly applied dressing. It didn't escape Dean's notice when the younger man didn't flinch at all from the contact. He's in a better place now, Dean realized. Whatever hurts or haunts he had had when he was a kid were gone. Or at least well enough dealt with that a simple touch didn't freak him out.

"Hey, it was great catching up with you Clint. Hopefully it won't be ten years before our next reunion."

"And under better circumstances," Clint smirked. Then, reaching into his own pocket and pulling out pen and paper, Clint wrote down his cell number. "Unlike last time, I actually _do_ have a way you can reach me that doesn't involve a hawk-signal or a purple 'X' in the window." He handed the paper to Dean. "You should give Sam a call, just to catch up, see how he's doing. It's not worth having a brother out there if you don't talk."

"I could say the same to you."

"Not really in the cards for me."

Clint's eyes flashed with that sudden pain again, coupled with a fleeting moment of darkness, and Dean let the matter drop with a nod. Man they had messed up lives.

"Well, take care of yourself, Clint," Dean said as he made his way to his car, turning the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life.

Clint smirked as he straddled his ride, flicking the kickstand up with his foot.

"Always," he replied with a smirk, starting the bike and barreling down the road at top speed as Dean drove his Impala in the other direction.

* * *

 _End of Part 2!_

Arlothia _did a great job, didn't she?! :D Part 3 coming your way very soon! Keep an eye out!_

 _And please go vote for What No One Else Sees at:  
_

 _inkitt dot com / fandom_


	3. December 2005

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I also don't own Supernatural or any of the characters affiliated with **them**._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Hi for the third time today! This is Part 3 to the SPN/VPU crossover! You guys are so lucky! I never update this many times in one day lol. Part 4 and 5 will get posted tomorrow, that's all that's done so far. But I know Arlothia is working on Part 6 and I've got ideas for a Part 7 ;D_

 _Also, if you haven't voted yet for WNOES in the inkitt contest please do! it ends tomorrow night and I only have a few vote lead!_

 _To vote, go to the link:_

 _inkitt dot com / fandom_

 _It says the contest is closed for submissions, but voting is still going on. Help me out people!_

 _Finally, while this IS written in the Vantage Point Universe (if your new to my Avengers work, feel free to check out the rest of my works), it isn't, as of right now, actually part of VPU cannon. Meaning that it's kind of an AU to the VPU...so an AAU of sorts...anyway,_ _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _Sam: Look at these chemicals. do you even read the labels?  
Dean: No. I read "pie." The rest is just "blah, blah, blah."  
_ **"I'm No Angel", Season 9 Episode 3**

* * *

 _December 2005_

* * *

Dean loved Boston. He really did. The city had a pie named after it - it didn't get much better than that. Sure, Boston Cream Pie was more like a cake than a pie. Sure, Dean would always really prefer a good fruit pie. But damn, Boston sure knew how to make the signature dish to perfection.

They especially knew how to make it at "Mike's Pastry" in the North End. Which was why Dean was waiting in a line that stretched around the block, leather jacket pulled tightly around him and hands hidden under his armpits to get himself some of that Boston Cream Pie. Gotta love the Christmas season.

As it was, the holiday was still a couple weeks away, but apparently people in Boston started the pastry part of the season early. Dean got it. He lived in the pastry season year round.

The line shuffled forward and Dean shuffled with it.

Then, just as his mind started to stray to thoughts of the holiday and of the brother who had elected a couple of years ago now to spend his life apart from Dean, a shoulder slammed into his.

"Hey, watch it, douche bag," Dean snarled as he caught his balance and turned to glare at whoever had walked into him.

"I wasn't the one staring wistfully off into space, I thought monster hunters had to be aware of their surroundings."

Dean blinked, staring in slightly open mouthed shock at the young man smirking at him.

"Clint," he huffed in surprise, only to realize exactly what the other man had said. He tossed around a furtive glance, pleased to see that the people around him were all either talking on cell phones or playing on them. Nobody was paying attention to the scruffy looking guy in a leather jacket and combat boots or the less scruffy looking guy…also in a leather jacket and combat boots.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the similarity in their wardrobe tastes, but then shook his head to clear the thought.

"And you're Dean." Clint nodded with a patronizing smirk. "Now that we've got that cleared up, I see you've heard of Mike's."

Dean sighed, eying the long line of people between him and the entry.

"Yeah…but I'm beginning to wish I hadn't. I'm freezing my ass off out here." He turned back to Clint in time to see the younger man smirking at his expense. Dean just rolled his eyes and eyed the brown box in Clint's hand, tied closed with a brown string that had a fork and napkin tucked under it.

Dean licked his lips without meaning too. He could practically taste that Boston Cream already.

A teasing chuckle had him glaring at his friend.

"Laugh it up, carnie-boy." The nickname had Clint sobering and shooting him a glare. Before he could offer up his usual 'I was a performer' defense, Dean went on, "When did you get here, dawn? I've been here for an hour and I'm still around the block."

Clint tossed a look around and smiled conspiratorially, leaning in closer as if he were about to divulge a deep secret.

"I have an in with the owner," he whispered. Then jerked his head to indicate Dean should follow him. "Come on."

Dean didn't have to be told twice. He took a few jogging steps to catch up with his friend and then matched his stride as they walked the length of the line. He couldn't help the superior look he tossed at the chumps stuck in the line. Clint led him down an alley and to a back door.

He watched Clint knock twice, pause, and then knock twice more. Given the oddity of the approach, Dean really wasn't surprised when the door opened immediately.

"Jacky boy! Back already?" A stout man wearing a white apron and splattered with flour smiled widely at them in greeting. Dean arched an eyebrow at the 'Jacky' part, wondering just how Clint knew these guys and why he wouldn't have given them his real name. Not for the first time, he realized ten years was a long time and his old friend from Sonny's had changed a lot – in some ways that were subtle and some that weren't.

"Ran into a friend out in that line freezing his ass off. Take care of him, would you, Bobby?"

Dean's mind involuntarily flashed to a memory of his own Bobby. He should call him, maybe Bobby would give him the couch and they could drink their way through the holidays together.

"Yeah, you got it!" Bobby agreed with a wide grin. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine!"

Clint nodded and turned to Dean, clapping him on the shoulder.

"He'll take care of you. I gotta get going."

"Hey wait," Dean caught Clint's arm as he started away. He withdrew the hold sharply when Clint's entire posture shifted aggressively in instinctive response to the restraint. Dean furrowed his brow in confusion. Last time they'd met up, Clint hadn't flinched away from a pat on the shoulder. Dean honestly hadn't been expecting a negative reaction to a touch now.

Clint was watching him with a questioning arch to his eyebrow so Dean put aside his confusion for the moment. "How long are you in town. I'm finishing up the job I'm working tonight. We should get a beer."

Maybe Dean was feeling nostalgic because of the holiday, or maybe just lonely. But with Sam thousands of miles away and his Dan who knew where, Dean just wanted some human interaction – preferably with a friendly face. Running into Clint again so soon after that Kitsune hunt a few months ago seemed like the fates of Christmas giving him a gift. Maybe it'd been 10 years since they'd really known each other, but he still remembered those days at Sonny's with intense clarity. And he never forgot the friendship he'd forged with a scrawny little 13 year old with a bad attitude. The urge to get to know this kid again – not so much a kid anymore – to reignite that friendship, was almost overwhelming.

" _I'm not your brother, Dean. I'm not Sam."_

The memory of Clint's words to him at the lake all those years ago nearly stole his breath. Was that what he was doing? Was he trying to fill the void Sam left in his life by pulling Clint back in?

God, he missed his brother so goddamned much.

Dean blinked away the sudden moisture in his eyes and drew in a steadying breath. Damned holidays. He glanced at Clint to see if he'd noticed his emotional lapse only to find he wasn't even looking at him. He was looking down at his watch then shifted to look up at the sky. Why? Dean had no idea, all that was up there was rooftops and fire escapes.

"Sure," Clint agreed abruptly, bringing his gaze back down to earth. "I've got plans tonight, but I can meet you tomorrow. Text me when and where."

Dean nodded and Clint was gone, moving away and disappearing around a corner.

Dean looked back at Bobby, who smiled.

"What can I get you?"

Dean grinned.

"A Boston Cream Pie for starters…beyond that, you can surprise me."

Bobby nodded.

"Whole pie or just a slice?"

Dean smirked.

"What do you think?"

Bobby laughed.

"I think you and Jacky boy are cut from the same cloth." He looked over his shoulder. "Martha! A whole Boston and all of Jacky's favorites!"

Dean felt his mouth water in anticipation. Bobby turned back to him and smiled again.

"It'll just be a second."

Dean nodded agreeably, eyeing the larger man curiously. Part of him figured he should keep his nose out of Clint's business, but the louder part of him was too damn curious to keep his mouth shut.

"So, how do you know Jack?" Dean asked with an easy grin and a casual tone.

Bobby chuckled a little.

"Jacky was walking by one night and a group of punks tried to rob us. Jacky busted in the door, busted _them_ up, and then ordered a Boston Cream like it was just another day at the office." Bobby laughed now. "He's been a friend here ever since."

Dean nodded and huffed a slight laugh, smiling to hide his growing confusion. He wondered again what exactly had become of Clint after Sonny's. He'd alluded to something after they killed that Kitsune, something bad. But he'd been just as tight lipped then as he had been back at Sonny's. But whatever Clint had gone through, something in him had changed. Dean just couldn't quite put his finger on it. And it wasn't just the obvious stuff. Sure, now he spoke Japanese and carried a wicked knife. But those changes, those were nothing. It was everything else.

His reaction to being restrained, for one. It had been instinctive and aggressive. Dean had known, the moment Clint's posture changed that if he didn't drop his hand, Clint would make him. It took a lot to startle Dean, even more to intimidate him. Clint had done both with nothing but a shift in posture.

And then there was the whole going around busting up robberies in progress.

Maybe he was Batman's protege or something.

Bobby suddenly held out two boxes.

"There you go, kid. Come by anytime. Like I said, any friend of Jacky's is a friend of ours."

Dean promised himself two things as he walked away.

One, he would definitely be stopping at Mike's again before he left town. And two, he was going to get to the bottom of the changes in his friend – one way or another.

* * *

Dean brushed the dirt off his jacket and tossed the shovel back in the trunk of the impala. He hated digging up graves. Hated even more digging them up when they were under the floorboards of an abandon house practically in old city center. Too many possible witnesses and too many curious eyes.

He tossed a wary look around, but the street was quiet. Apparently it was his lucky night.

He closed the trunk and pulled his key free. He had half a Boston Cream Pie back at his hotel with his name on it.

The gunshot nearly gave him a heart attack. He'd dropped to a crouch and pulled his own weapon before he'd even fully processed what had happened.

The sound of breaking glass, then another gunshot had shifting nervously.

"Not your problem, Dean. Just get in the car and go eat your slice of heaven," he whispered to himself. Then he sighed, listened to one more gunshot and moved.

Saving people. It was the family business after all. If he got there and the cops were already all over it, he'd fade back into the shadows. But if someone needed help and Dean ignored it, he'd never be able to let it go.

He moved quickly and silently through the streets to where he'd heard the shots originate from. All had been quiet for a few moments now, but he kept moving anyway.

Just when he thought he'd just have to give up and go home he spotted a broken window, three stories up, in an alley across the street. He scanned the area, looking for signs of whoever fired.

Sure enough, there was a head poking out the window.

"I think he's gone," the man said.

Another head appeared.

"How the hell did he survive that jump? That's gotta be at least 30 feet."

"Maybe he's part monkey?" the first man laughed. "I think I winged him though."

The second man turned and shoved the first.

"What does it matter if you winged him?! He still got away with the files with the safe house locations! The Boss is gonna kill us! He's going to worse than kill us!"

The two withdrew into the room, arguing loudly and Dean just blinked in confusion.

It sounded like some crazy spy or mob shit. Definitely not his business. He nearly had another heart attack when a shadowy figure, dressed in all black, including a beanie that covered his hair, suddenly climbed out of the dumpster directly underneath the window the men had been leaning out of.

The figure stumbled a little as he found his feet on the ground and then looked up at the window. He watched the man press a hand to his shoulder, then take off in an abrupt run, directly at the wall below the base of a fire escape.

Almost as if he were flying, the man scaled the fire escape and disappeared onto the rooftop.

Dean shook his head.

Definitely not his business.

* * *

Clint rolled his neck, trying to dispel the tightness there, and then reached for the door to the bar. It didn't matter how good you were, or how much trash was in the dumpster, falling two stories rattled your bones. Of course it would have been three if he hadn't been able to clear the entire alley and land on a window sill a floor below and opposite the one he'd fled out of. But with bullets still flying speed had been the name of the game. The dumpster had been his best option.

It had been a split second decision to jump for it from the second story window he'd been perched on. He was pretty sure he'd landed on the corner of a box, smacked his head on something hard, and ripped open a bag full of dirty diapers and rotting Thai food. He'd showered for an hour and _still_ he could swear he smelled all of it in the air around him. _But_ the trash and the shadows had hidden him from the pursuing shots until the men assumed he'd just escaped.

They'd winged him, though, when they busted into the room to find him stealing files out of a hidden safe in the wall. The lead guy had gotten a good shot off at him as Clint had made for the window. Using your body to break a window? Never a good time. He had the cuts and bruises to prove it. With those and the gunshot wound on his shoulder, Phil was gonna throw a fit and shit furious little kittens.

He scanned the interior of the bar and found his friend easily in a booth at the back.

A few moments later, Clint was sliding in across from him.

"Perfect, I just ordered us wings. I got you a beer too." Dean motioned at the condensating bottle on the table in front of Clint.

Clint nodded his thanks and took a small sip, fully intent on making it last the duration of the evening – or maybe he'd just pass it off to Dean and order a scotch. He was still deciding when Dean's voice broke his reverie.

"Dude, thank you for the hook up at Mike's, I was about to freeze my ass off out there yesterday."

"No problem," Clint waved him off, "Mike's a good guy and Bobby likes to pretend he's everybody's favorite uncle."

Dean nodded and smiled.

"I know a little something about uncles named Bobby."

Clint arched an eyebrow, opening his mouth to ask, but then he realized Dean was eyeing him a little predatorily.

"So _Jacky_ …what's with the alias?"

Clint laughed. That was rich coming from a guy with Dean's fraud background.

"That's an interesting question coming from you. Is there a classic rock band you haven't impersonated a member of?"

Dean looked momentarily shocked, and Clint wondered if maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

"You did your research, I see," the older man looked wary now, but also curious.

Clint shrugged and confessed – although vaguely – around another sip of beer.

"After we met up in New York a few months ago, I used my resources to see what you'd been up to."

Dean cocked his head and took a long drag of his beer.

"And what resources are those?"

Clint took a short sip of his own drink and shrugged again.

"Google." It was a laughable lie, but it would get the point across that he wasn't spilling.

Dean rolled his eyes and slid out of the booth.

"I'm gonna hit the head, I'll be back and then you can try telling me the truth." He slapped Clint's shoulder as he went by…hand impacting right on top of the bandage Clint had hastily applied to his gunshot wound.

He hid the flinch. It was the bulk of the bandage that got Dean's attention. Clint watched Dean's green eyes widen and then the pieces to some puzzle seemed to fall rapidly into place. He slid back into the booth with a slightly gaping jaw. Clint narrowed his eyes, confused by his friend's expression.

"I thought you had to hit the head?" Clint asked in confusion.

"Dude…who are you?"

Clint frowned at the odd question.

"You know who I am."

"Do I?" Dean challenged, eyes intense. "I saw you last night," the hunter stated abruptly. "Dumpster diving," he added meaningfully.

Clint stared back evenly and remained silent, regarding Dean seriously, trying to decide how much he could trust him. Ten years was a long time.

"Come on man, what are you into?" Dean pushed. "Are you in the mob or something? The CIA? Are you working for Batman? A vigilante or some shit?"

Clint rolled his eyes, knowing at least the last two suggestions were mostly joking. He sighed and met Dean's intense green gaze. He remembered then, a stormy night ten years ago. Dean had told him the truth that night, amidst knife throwing and sneaking food from the pantry. The truth about the Winchester family and their mission. He'd trusted Clint with the biggest secret of his life. How could Clint not do the same?

"First of all, I've dealt with the real mob…and working for them is no picnic. The CIA can barely tie their shows compared to SHIELD. And Batman isn't real, dude. Other masked vigilante's on the other hand…" Clint shrugged vaguely.

Dean blinked at him, eyes comically wide.

"What the hell is SHIELD?"

"Strategic, Homeland, Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," Clint recited mechanically.

Dean blinked again.

"What the hell is SHIELD?" he asked again in the exact same tone as he had the first time.

"It's a covert agency," Clint explained vaguely.

"Dude…are you a spy?" Dean's voice was awed and slightly stunned.

Clint smirked and then locked down his expression.

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Dean narrowed his gaze and then laughed like he thought Clint was kidding. Then, when Clint's expression remained stoic, Dean sobered and sat back in his seat. He shook his head and reached for his beer.

"Holy shit…I'm friends with 007."

* * *

 _End of Part 3!_

 _Part 4 and 5 will head your way tomorrow! Until then, drop me a line down there in the review box and please go vote for WNOES in the contest! You know you want to!_

 _inkitt dot com / fandom_


	4. February 2006

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I also don't own Supernatural or any of the characters affiliated with **them**._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Hey all! So sorry I didn't get this posted yesterday! But here it is now! This part is written by_ **Arlothia** _completely and fully! So give her some love in the reviews!_

 _Also, thanks to all of you, my story "What No One Else Sees" WON the contest it was in! So HUGE THANK YOU! You guys really came through! On tumblr, my followers were calling themselves the #VPU_army during this whole thing (which was so awesome) and all of you totally came through and dominated. So thank you again!_

 _Now, enjoy this part and look for Part 5 later today!_

* * *

 _Dean Winchester: "I mean, come on, Sam. What are we doing?"_  
 _Sam Winchester: "We're hunting a ghost."_  
 _Dean Winchester: "A ghost, exactly. Who does that?"_  
 **"Yellow Fever", Season 4 Episode 6**

* * *

 _February 2006_

* * *

It was early February when Clint drove up to the storage facility in South Dakota and parked his Ducati outside his unit. There was a particular kind of resin he used on his bow that could only be found in Germany and he had convinced Phil that it would be easier to just get some he had stored away in his locker than it would to have it shipped to New York. So, one jet and a few hours later and he was there.

He opened the door and immediately went to where he knew his bow treatment kit was. It took some digging to get it out from under the various and sundry items it had been buried beneath (he hadn't used this particular kit in ages) but finally he had the bag in hand. Putting it in his backpack he turned to leave. Only to stop dead in his tracks when a man stood only a few feet in front of him, posture reeking with anger and aggression.

But this wasn't just some guy. His name was Colonel Jacob Anders, leader of a particularly nasty private military organization in Australia. Or at least he had been until Clint had put an arrow through his heart.

Clint immediately drew his knife from its hiding place in less than a heartbeat, but when he blinked Anders was gone. Clint shook his head and put his knife back. He was used to seeing the faces of the people he had killed but they were usually in his dreams. And why the hell had his mind decided to conjure up Jacob Anders of all people?

During his contract days, Clint had never been one to ask questions about his marks, but he had known Anders was a nasty piece of work and had deserved what had happened to him. Not that it made Clint killing him in cold blood any better, but it meant that he felt a little less guilty about him than many of the other 287 people he had killed that year.

He was just about to walk out the door when something threw him back against the wall. _Hard_. But there had been nobody there. It had felt more like the concussive force of an explosion than anything else. He fell to the ground, a small shelf landing on top of him. Pinned for the moment as he was, he couldn't reach the knife at his back when he saw a pair of feet standing right in front of him. So instead he reached for whatever was close to his hands and swung as hard as he could at his attacker.

Clint saw his weapon hit the guy's legs but was met with no resistance at all. And yet the legs vanished, almost like they had been made of smoke. Not wasting any time incase Anders came back, Clint worked quickly at getting himself vertical, which was a bit tricky given that his backpack had decided to get tangled in the now-broken shelving. He winced as he felt his right shoulder protest at the exertion but it didn't feel broken and it wasn't dislocated. Small miracles.

He looked down at the item he had used to attack. It was an iron crowbar. Any doubts about what he was dealing with were gone. He remembered a young boy telling him about ghosts and how salt and iron can drive them off. It was time to give the man that boy had grown into a call.

* * *

"I told you Sammy, driver picks the music!"

"Dean, we've heard nothing but classic rock for days! All I'm asking is to change the channel for a few minutes."

"What, so you can put on the news? Come on, Sam. Our lives are already depressing enough without bringing world issues into it."

All of a sudden Dean's phone rang. Recognizing the number he immediately flipped it open and put it to his ear. There was only one reason he could think of for this person to be calling him and that meant trouble.

"Clint? What's going on?"

" _I have a problem that's right up your alley."_

"Where are you?" Dean glanced at Sam who was looking at him, obviously confused. He didn't offer any explanation, only turned his eyes back to the road and listened closely to the man on the other end of the phone.

" _Elk Point, South Dakota. I think I'm dealing with a ghost. I swung an iron crowbar at it and it disappeared, but I don't know for how long."_

"Alright, you're less than an hour from Bobby's place. Remember I told you about him when we were kids? He'll be able to help you. I'll text you the address. We're a little over an hour away ourselves. We'll meet you there."

" _Drive fast."_

The line disconnected and Dean quickly texted Clint the address he had promised before pressed down on the accelerator.

"Who the hell was that?" Sam asked.

"And old friend of mine needs help," Dean replied as he told his brother the story about how he had met Clint Barton years ago.

* * *

Clint sped down the empty street, any traffic laws normally might have followed well out of mind.

He was about ten minutes from the address Dean had given him when a familiar figure appeared on the road right in front of him. He slammed on the breaks and swerved to miss him. But his quick maneuvering had his bike going almost horizontal and Clint found himself tumbling away from it towards the side of the road where he landed in a dirty heap.

Blinking away the stars that were dancing around his vision, Clint looked around for Anders and found him standing right above him. Desperately reaching for the crowbar he had stuck down the back of his pants, his hands found nothing. He didn't have time to search for it before a cold and strong hand reached down and clamped around his throat, lifting him up off the ground until he was dangling in mid air and staring into the furious eyes of the dead. Clint had never felt a grip that strong before, or felt anything that cold. It was almost as if Anders were trying to squeeze out his very soul at the same time he was trying to freeze it.

Just when he thought the last thing he was going to see in this world was the rage-filled face of the man he had killed over three years ago, Clint faintly heard tires screeching, followed by what sounded like a shot gun blast. He immediately fell back to the ground, all strength gone with consciousness soon to follow.

Before his eyes closed, he saw another familiar figure kneeling over him. But instead of hate, there was worry all over this person's face. There was someone else standing above Dean and for a moment Clint thought Jacob Anders had returned. He tensed, ready to shout a warning or get up and fight (whichever was less painful), but strong, _warm_ , hands pressed down on his shoulders.

"Hey, take it easy there Clint. It's me. The ghost's gone for now. You're okay." The other man standing behind Dean came into focus only briefly but Clint recognized that he wasn't Anders. His brain tried to make a connection as to who it might be but his body chose that moment drift into unconsciousness.

* * *

 _Jacob Anders was going to be a tricky one. He must have suspected that he had a price on his head so he took every precaution to make sure he didn't present himself as a target. That included having a full detail of men around him at all times. That was going to make it difficult to get a clear shot. But Clint had been watching this man for over a week now and he knew when his best opportunity to kill the Colonel was._

 _Every few days Anders left his compound for a few hours to visit a certain lady friend in town. It was the only time he didn't have a full escort with him. But the streets were busy with foot traffic and Clint didn't want to risk his shot being taken by a passerby._

 _Before he reached his destination, Clint ambushed him, incapacitating his single body guard, and dragging him into an alley. The crowds milling on the streets didn't seem to notice._

 _What followed was a simple fight. Anders was taken off guard but his instincts and training kicked in and he drew out a knife before he even got a good look at who was attacking him. In a few deft movements the knife was in Clint's hands and a few seconds later it was sliding across his target's neck. Once Anders' body hit the ground, Clint pulled an arrow out of his quiver and, after a quick twirl in his fingers, slammed it into the man's heart._

 _But suddenly he was looking up at Anders' face as he towered over Clint, the dead man's knife once again in his own hand. Light glinted off the blade as it came swiftly down into Clint's neck._

* * *

Clint shot up from where he was lying down, knocking back the hands that were on him. He tried to reach for his knife but found it, and his shirt, gone. The sound of startled exclamations brought his attention to the men who were standing over him and he lashed out with his bare hands. But his battered and bruised body protested and he collapsed onto the floor, pain in his right shoulder blossoming so much it had his vision whiting out for a moment.

Distantly he heard his name and he looked up to see who had shouted it. As his vision cleared, Dean's face came into focus and he relaxed some.

"You with me now?" the hunter asked. He stood a few feet away, hands held out in a nonthreatening manner, staring down at his friend with a mixture of surprise and concern.

Clint took a moment more to look around at the unfamiliar room and the two other figures standing behind Dean. One was tall with disheveled hair and the other was an older man with a beard and baseball cap. Clint returned his attention to Dean and nodded once, but the movement made his head swim and he had to close his eyes again.

"Alright, just take it easy Clint. Let's get you back on the couch."

Clint didn't resist when he felt hands help him to a sitting position. He was grateful that he was able to get his legs underneath him on his own as he pushed himself back up to the couch he had fallen off of moments before.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, his throat sore and his voice rough.

"We found you on the side of the road being strangled by a ghost," said the tall man, who Clint now recognized as the tall man he had seen before he had passed out. Clint finally made the connection his brain had been trying to make earlier. This had to be Sam, Dean's younger brother. "After you passed out we brought you here."

"And where is here?" Clint asked, coughing slightly.

"My place," came a gruff voice from the third person in the room. "Now would someone please mind telling me what the hell is going on? And who is this idjit?"

And that must be Bobby.

"Clint's an old friend of mine. He has a ghost problem," Dean replied.

"Balls," Clint heard Bobby hiss. "You sure know how to pick your friends, kid." Clint instantly took a liking to him.

"How do we get rid of it?" Clint asked.

"Salt and burn the body," came the immediate response.

Clint huffed a painful laugh. "That'll be a fine trick. As far as I know he was buried in Australia."

His statement was met with silence and another whispered curse.

"Well do you have anything that may have belonged to this ghost of yours?" Bobby asked.

Clint was about to say he didn't, but stopped.

He remembered taking Anders' knife away from him in the fight. Had he kept it? A good knife was a good knife and Clint hadn't been picky about where they had come from. He vaguely remembered taking it with him as he left the man's bloody body in the alley. Following that memory brought him to later that day when he had been cleaning his bow on the floor of the room where he had been staying. He must have absently put the knife in with the rest of his cleaning supplies. Cleaning supplies that were now in his backpack.

"Where's the backpack I had?" he asked.

Sam handed it to him and Clint pulled out the cleaning kit. He found the knife easily enough and held it out.

"This belonged to him. I forgot I even had it."

"I'll get the lighter fluid," Bobby said as he left the room.

"My lighter's in the car," Sam said and he followed the older man out.

When Clint braced himself to get up Dean stepped in front of him but wisely didn't put a hand on him.

"Hey, I know you're a super spy and everything like that, but you seriously look like crap. And I've looked like you have right now so I know you must be hurting like a son of a–"

"I'm fine Dean. I've had a lot worse." Clint got to his feet and counted it as a victory when his legs didn't immediately give out on him. He wavered slightly but was able to keep his balance.

"Yeah, I can see that. You have a few more scars than I remember seeing all those years ago."

Clint suddenly became aware of every scar he had, from the ones on his back (which Dean was already familiar with), to the various bullet wounds he had accrued, to the scar on the right side of his chest. Hoping to stave off any questions, he snatched his shirt from where he saw it hanging over the arm of the couch and quickly put it on.

"We're both a little worse for ware," he replied simply.

"Comes with the jobs I guess."

The two men moved outside to where Bobby and Sam had a fiercely hot fire going in an old metal trash can. Without needing to be instructed, Clint stiffly walked over to the fire and tossed the knife in. A shriek rose up, seemingly from the flames, followed by a stiff wind that tugging at their clothing. Clint shivered involuntarily. The spirit of Colonel Jacob Anders might be gone but Clint knew this wasn't the last time he would see his ghost.

Abruptly a thought came to mind.

"Where's my bike?"

Dean and Sam shared a look.

"It's still on the side of the road," Dean replied apologetically. "It's not in the greatest shape."

"Seriously? Aw man! Do any of you guys know a good mechanic around here?"

"I can take the truck out and get it back here," Bobby offered. "I'm the only mechanic for a while around here and these boys are pretty handy under a hood."

"Thanks," Clint said. "I just need to make a quick call."

He took a few steps away from them and reached into his pants pocket. He was relieved, if not a little surprised, to see that his phone wasn't broken.

He pressed number one on his speed dial and waited for the person on the other end to pick up.

" _Hey Clint. You on your way back?_ "

"About that. Listen, Phil, I'm going to be a bit longer than I thought."

" _What happened Clint? Are you alright?"_ His voice was dripping with worry.

"Everything's fine Phil, I just had a bit of bike trouble. Some idiot decided to swerve right in front of me and–"

" _You crashed?! How badly are you hurt Clint? I'll be on the next flight out."_

Clint rolled his eyes. Full mother hen mode activated.

"Phil, I'm _fine_! Honest! Just a few scrapes and bruises. A good Samaritan checked me out and my bike's heading to the shop now so I'll probably be back in a day or so, alright?"

" _You sure you're really okay?"_

Clint couldn't help the affectionate smile that touched his lips.

"Scout's honor, Phil."

The older agent seemed to accept that answer, not seeing the need to point out that Clint had never been a scout.

" _Get back as soon as you can, kid. Did you get the license plate number of the guy that made you crash?"_

Clint's mouth twisted into a smirk.

"Don't worry. He's been taken care of."

* * *

 _End Part 4_

 _'taken care of' indeed! :D She did such an awesome job, didn't she?!_

 _Part 5 is finished, just needs some tlc before I'll be ready to post it. That'll be the last part that was already written (these were originally tumblr posts we did for fun) but I know that_ **Arlothia** _is working on Part 6 and I've got Part 7 pretty much mapped out, just need to write it! (and it'll be LONG compared to these lol)_

 _Anyway, drop me and_ **Arlothia** _a line and let us know what you think so far!_


	5. April 2006

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I also don't own Supernatural or any of the characters affiliated with **them**._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Hey for the second time today! As promised, here is Part 5! This one is written by me! It takes place right after the SPN Episode "Faith" and after Clint got shot in "Croatia" :D It's the last completed part, but_ **Arlothia** _and I are both working on our next contributions :D_

 _Who knew a fun little tumblr goof off like this could turn into something awesome! I don't know about you but I'm totally enjoying this crossover LOL_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot.  
_ **Dean Winchester, "Faith", Season 1 Episode 12**

* * *

 _April 2006_

* * *

Clint grimaced as he eased his left arm free of his immobilizing sling. There was no other way to cut it - getting shot sucked. Getting shot in a place that demanded a long, drawn out recovery? Sucked worse. And he would recover. He was goddamned determined to do so. He'd fire his bow again even if he had to work the rest of his life to get there.

By the time he was free of the cursed contraption, sweat was beading on his brow from the exertion.

Getting shot also sucked the energy right out of you for a while and made even the most menial tasks excruciatingly taxing.

He threw the sling on the floor with a glare and eased back on to his bed, letting a contented sigh escape as his mattress and pillow enveloped him in their sweet embrace.

Sleep would be good. It had been a long day that started early. Waking up from a nightmare at 3 am was rough on a good day. Add in a severely wounded shoulder that didn't appreciate abrupt and violent awakenings and the whole situation achieved a whole new level of _suck_.

Then of course he'd had PT today, just in case his day wasn't bad enough already.

But the real icing on the cake had been the seminar. Apparently some ass-hat agent had gotten fresh with a girl on the support staff. So the _entire_ base had to attend a mandatory sexual harassment prevention seminar.

That had just been... _awesome_.

Clint sighed and shook his head ruefully. Too bad Phil had refused to give him the name of the agent that had started all this – Clint would have made sure the guy knew to keep his hands to himself in the future.

Now, he was ready to sleep, hopefully dreamlessly. He could already fell the intoxicating pull of unconsciousness. He suddenly found he didn't even have the will to sit up and unlace his boots.

' _BACK IN BLACK! I HIT THE SACK! I'VE BEEN TOO LONG I'M GLAD TO BE BACK!'_

The sudden blasting of the ringtone from his cell phone nearly gave him a heart attack. As it was, he flinched and ignited a whole new wave of pain in his shoulder.

He wanted to ignore it. He _wanted_ to just keep his eyes closed and let unconsciousness sweep him away.

But he knew that ringtone.

Dean wouldn't be calling unless there was trouble. Their friendship wasn't exactly a 'call and make plans' type of thing. It was more of a 'run into each other on the street and go get a beer' type thing. As it was, a few months ago, Clint had ended up calling _Dean_ when he'd had a run in with a ghost.

He just hoped Dean didn't need him to put his spy-skills to use. He didn't think his shoulder was up for any sort of activity beyond absolute _in_ activity.

In the end, if Dean was in trouble enough to call _him,_ Clint couldn't ignore it. He reached for his phone and answered.

"Dean?"

" _Hey, dude, how you been?"_ He sounded off, tired, exhausted even. Clint frowned and slowly pulled himself up to a seated position.

"Still breathing, still mobile. You know how it is." Clint purposefully didn't look at the sling glaring up at him from the floor. "What about you, man? You good?"

" _Yeah…yeah, I'm good."_ But he didn't sound good, Clint could hear it like a wailing alarm. Something had happened.

"Sam okay?" Clint glanced at his clock, wondering about his odds of getting Phil to give him a jet. If something had happened to Sam, Dean shouldn't be alone. He'd do something rash. Clint would know after all. He and Dean were wired the same way.

" _Yeah, dude, Sam's fine. He's sleeping back at the hotel."_

Some of Clint's worry for Dean's emotional state faded and worry about his _physical_ state kicked into gear. With Dean, the direct approach often worked best.

"No offense, man, but you sound like shit."

Dean chuckled tiredly.

" _Well, it's been a long few days."_

Clint heard that. It'd been a long few _weeks_. His instincts nagged at him though. Something was off. If it wasn't Sam, then it was Dean. God, he better not be bleeding to death somewhere.

"You're not bleeding out in a gutter or anything are you?"

Dean laughed outright this time and Clint blew out a relieved sigh.

" _Naw, it's nothing like that, Clint."_ But that meant it was something. _"I'm in the city though, thought you might want to meet up for a beer."_

Clint absolutely did not. He was exhausted and in pain and beer wasn't exactly on his list of favorite beverages. The last thing he wanted to do was put that goddamned sling back on and make the three hour trek into the city.

"Sure, man," he agreed anyway. Dean wouldn't have called for a casual beer. That thought kept rebounding in Clint's head. Something had happened. Clint needed to find out what.

" _Great, wanna hit up Giordano's?"_

"No." Clint refused bluntly.

" _You and Elena on the outs?"_ Dean sounded confused now. Clint couldn't blame him. Last time they'd met up for a beer in the city – Dean and Sam had just finished a hunt and had wandered into the same bar Clint had already been patronizing – Clint and Elena hadn't exactly been shy about their 'situation' around Dean. Mostly, Clint admitted, so that Dean kept his green eyes and flirty comments to himself.

"No, nothing like that. Just haven't been by in a while and don't want to show up with you drooling at her over my shoulder."

And he wasn't up to explaining the sling on his shoulder to her quite yet. Lying may be his profession, but watching her buy his bullshit without question never felt quite right.

" _Okay, how about that place on 25th?"_

"Sure, but it'll take me a few hours to get to the city."

" _Don't you worry, I've got no problem getting started without you."_

It was Clint's turn to laugh now as he hung up the phone and tossed it aside. Then he leveled his glare at his sling.

"Alright, you little son of a bitch. Let's do this."

Then he just had to convince Phil to let him sign out a car. Yeah…that'd be easy.

* * *

Dean looked up from his _3rd?_ beer when the bar's entry door swung open for the millionth time in the last hour. It'd been nearly three hours since he'd called Clint, a decision that he'd made in the heat of the moment. With Sam still looking at him like he was gonna just collapse of heart failure and Layla's impending death looming over him in a cloud of guilt, Dean had just needed a change of pace. He needed something that wasn't part of the last couple weeks.

Clint was that in a nutshell. And he was familiar enough that Dean could let down his guard a little.

The person coming through the door wasn't Clint, so Dean looked down at his drink again, trying to decide if he wanted to get some food or not.

Before he could decide, the door swung open again.

Dean felt his lips quirk into a friendly grin when he recognized Clint stalking into the bar. When his friend had started walking like a tiger on the prowl, Dean didn't know. But sometime between Sonny's Home for Boys and when they met up again years later, something had changed in his friend. Dean had since learned that Clint was practically James Bond. Which was awesome. But while that would account for the training and the instincts, it didn't explain the real change. It didn't explain the shadows.

Dean's train of thought was broken when he caught sight of a particular accessory Clint was sporting. He felt his smile fall away. Looked like he wasn't the only one who's last few days had been rough.

Clint spotted him and made his way back, sliding into the booth across from Dean like he didn't have a care and like his arm _wasn't_ strapped to his chest.

"Hey man," the archer greeted, giving Dean a once over with his sharp gaze. "Dude, you look terrible."

Dean stared at him. A classic pot, kettle situation…

" _I_ look terrible? Dude, find a freaking mirror." Dean felt a familiar protectiveness surge through his veins. Clint may not be his brother, but he'd decided a long time ago that the kid needed looking after. It seemed whoever was supposed to be doing that at the moment had failed. Spectacularly.

Clint just shrugged his good shoulder and waved down a waitress.

Dean just continued to stare at him as he ordered his typical solitary beer and an order of fries. When the waitress was gone, Clint sat back in his seat and stared right back.

"Dude, what the hell happened to you?"

"Man, what the hell happened to you?"

Dean and Clint spoke at the same time, voices blending in the space between them. They both glared at each other and Dean decided to break out his big brother voice.

"You first. Somebody do that to you?" he demanded, eyeing the immobilizing sling.

Clint's gaze turned a little haunted, in a way Dean had never seen before. But just as quickly he blinked the emotion away.

"A bullet did," he informed Dean bluntly. "But before you go getting all vengeful, the bastard that fired it is already dead."

Dean still felt pretty vengeful, though, so he dug for more information.

"You kill him?" he asked. He wouldn't put it past him. If he knew one thing about his friend, it was that Clint was a tough son of a bitch.

Clint shook his head.

"I was too busy almost bleeding to death. My handler took care of him."

Dean nodded slowly.

"Your handler maybe should do a better job taking care of _you_."

He wasn't expecting the deep, dark flash of emotion that flickered across Clint's face. It was only because he saw it that he understood the true weight behind Clint's next words.

"That's a current point of contention between us. You and he are of similar mindsets on that."

And suddenly Dean just knew this hadn't been some run of the mill, spy gets shot situation. Something more had happened.

"Clint," he called his friends name seriously, "what happened?"

Clint lifted his chin a little, a defensive move Dean had seen Sam do countless times. He'd done battle over this situation already, maybe with this handler.

"That bullet was gonna hit somebody. It was me or him. I chose me." Clint shrugged a little. "He thinks I made the wrong choice."

Personally, Dean emphatically agreed. No choice that ended with someone he cared about being hurt was the right one.

Apparently Clint was done with this thread of conversation though, because he pinned Dean with a hard glare.

"Now you wanna tell me why you look like death warmed over?"

Dean suddenly didn't feel like offering the honesty he'd just demanded of his friend. So he waved a hand dismissively.

"Been a long week, that's all."

Clint's gaze hardened.

"That's bullshit. You don't call me to get a beer for a 'long week'. You look like shit man. You sound worse. Where's Sam? He really okay?" Clint was studying him with that deeply penetrating gaze of his. That was one thing that _hadn't_ changed over the years. Clint always had been able to see straight through him.

Dean sighed.

"Sam's fine. He's asleep back at our motel. Probably gonna have a little bitch fit if he wakes up and finds me gone."

He watched Clint study him. He could practically see the gears turning in the spy's head. He watched Clint's gaze drift over him again, visually assessing him. He watched him put the pieces together.

"So whatever shit you got into on your last hunt…I'm assuming you're here because you got out of it…but it was bad enough that Sam's still worrying. What happened? You hurt?" And now Clint looked like he was about to go start hunting down whoever did the hurting.

Dean rolled his eyes. Maybe they were too much alike.

"No, I'm not hurt. At least not anymore."

He regretted his wording immediately because he saw Clint almost tangibly latch onto the 'not anymore' part. With a resigned sigh, he decided to just spill it before the archer tried to use some freaky spy trick to get it out of him.

"I got electrocuted, triggered a heart attack. Got healed by a reaper who was trading a life for a life. Took the bitch that was controlling it out and sacrificed an innocent girl who deserved to be healed a hell of a lot more than me in the process."

To Clint's credit, he took in Dean's word-vomit of an explanation with nothing but a slow nod. Then he arched a curious eyebrow.

"And by 'sacrificed' you mean…"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"No, not _literally_ sacrificed."

Clint's lips quirked into a teasing smirk.

"Sorry, just never can be too sure with you monster hunter types."

Dean shook his head in exasperation.

"You're such an asshole. I'm sitting here pouring out my soul to you and you make a joke."

"Hey, if you wanted soulful empathy, you called the wrong guy. I'm known more for my witty sarcasm and insensitivity."

Dean tried to resist, but in the end couldn't help but chuckle. Clint was a lot of things – wittily sarcastic definitely being at the top of the list - but insensitive? Try the opposite. You didn't get more empathetic than this kid, even if he did try to hide it. That's why he was out in the middle of the night looking exhausted with a busted shoulder just because Dean had asked.

"Yeah, you're stone cold – the picture of emotionlessness. You don't give two shits about the common man." Dean replied with not just a little sarcasm of his own.

Clint smirked and nodded, accepting the beer the waitress finally brought him.

"You got that right, not two shits."

"That's why you drove three hours from wherever the hell you live upstate to have your _one_ beer with your jackass friend that called you at 11:45 at night."

Clint scoffed and shifted the basket of bacon cheese fries the waitress slid down in front of him.

"You think I came here for you? I'm here for the fries."

Dean grinned.

"Fries you're gonna share, right?"

Clint gave him such a shocked and horrified look that Dean laughed.

"Share? I'm sure as hell _not_ gonna share. Get your own."

But when Dean reached across to snag a cheese and bacon laden fry, Clint didn't stop him. He sat back and munched it happily while Clint busied himself arranging the basket just right on the table.

"And for what it's worth," the spy commented suddenly and lowly, "what you do, man…who you are…I don't care what you think, you deserve to still be breathing. Don't you go thinking about checkin' out any time soon, okay?"

Dean stared at the top of Clint's head. Of course the little bastard would deliver his genuine and heartfelt words without meeting Dean's gaze. Dean cleared his throat against the warmth that the words brought.

"And you know, for what it's worth," he replied in an equally sincere and warm tone, "You're like a second annoying ass little brother and I like having you on my speed dial. So don't go making a habit of stepping in front of bullets, okay? I don't care who you think you're protecting. To me, your life is more important."

Clint still didn't raise his gaze, but Dean thought he saw the spy's face shift into a slight smile. He could almost see the sarcastic deflection building. Hell, situation reversed, he'd do the same thing. But Dean wasn't ready to let the conversation be shoved aside.

"I mean it, Clint. You matter, okay? To more than just that handler of yours. There are people that would miss you if you were gone."

Clint raised his gaze then, his expression deadly serious.

"I appreciate it, Dean. But if you were making the choice – if it was you or Sam? Would you even hesitate?"

Just the thought felt like a gut punch. He had to swallow the sudden tightness in his throat.

"No," he admitted quietly.

Clint's gaze remained serious.

"Then don't ask me to."

And then Dean got it. This handler, whoever he was, he wasn't just a handler. Not to Clint. He was family. He was family like Sam was family to Dean.

And you do anything for family, _anything_.

* * *

 _End of Part 5_

 _So this was the last finished part, but I'm literally about to start working on MY next part and I know_ **Arlothia** _has been working on hers :D So stay tuned, maybe next week there will be more!_

 _And PS - I've also been working on Untold Stories!_

 _Drop me a line! Let me know what you thought!_


	6. April 2007

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I also don't own Supernatural or any of the characters affiliated with **them**._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Hey there! New part! This one is written by_ **Arlothia** _with only minor help from me as a beta (talk about the shoe on the other foot!)_

 _I'm done with Part 7 too - which is actually SUPER long compared to the rest of these...it's like a little fic on it's own. In it we get to see Dean meet Phil! So the plan, is to post it tomorrow morning. Or if you're all good little readers, maybe I'll post it tonight:P Let's just see how evening goes!_

 _Oh and Happy Halloween! My husband has to work tonight so we took our one year old to a trunk or treat on the navy base we live near last night. The little guy was the cutest little batman there has ever been! (if hawkeye had been available, I'd have totally gone that route) So anybody that has littles trick or treating tonight or is going themselves, be safe and have fun!_

 _Now here's Part 6! Enjoy!_

 _OH and THANK YOU to all of you that have reviewed this so far! I've been so sporadic with posting, I haven't done my usual individual thanks like I normally do on multi-chap fics. So sorry! I'll totally start doing that again on the next part! Okay, i'll shut up now!_

* * *

 _You know, when we were little— and you couldn't been more than 5— you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom? Why do we always have to move around? Where'd Dad go when he'd take off for days at a time? I remember I begged you, "Quit asking, Sammy. Man, you don't want to know." I just wanted you to be a kid... Just for a little while longer. I always tried to protect you... Keep you safe... Dad didn't even have to tell me. It was just always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job... I had one job...And I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that, I'm sorry. I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down. And now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down, too. How can I? How am I supposed to live with that?  
_ **Dean Winchester, "All Hell Breaks Loose: Part Two", Season 2 Episode 22**

* * *

 _April 30, 2007_

* * *

It was a day Dean would never forget. A day that had been permanently imprinted into his mind and his heart as the worst day of his entire life.

It was the day Sam had died.

* * *

 _Sam was falling to his knees, gasping, face contorted in pain. Dean ran, sliding to the ground before Sam could fall, grabbing his shirt to keep him upright._

 _"No, Sam!" His younger brother slumped onto his shoulder. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sam. Sam! Hey! Hey, hey. Come here. Let me look at you."_

 _Dean brought his hand up from where it was probing Sam's back. It was completely covered in blood. He couldn't let himself dwell on what that meant. He couldn't let Sam know how scared he was._

 _"Hey, look at me. It's not even that bad. It's not even that bad, all right? Sammy? Sam!" Dean tried holding him up but Sam was losing strength by the second. Even as Dean held him tighter, Sam grew more limp in his arms. His brother's head wobbled. "Hey, listen to me. We're gonna patch you up, okay? You'll be good as new. Huh? I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna take you care of you. I've got you. That's my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?"_

 _Sam's eyes drifted closed and Dean frantically ran his hands over his face, trying to get him to open them again. "Sam? Sam! Sam! Sammy!"_

 _But Sam didn't open his eyes. He didn't move…He wasn't breathing._

 _Fear and denial, shock and despair filled Dean's face. No. This wasn't happening._

" _No. No, no, no, no, no, no."_

 _He pulled Sam into his shaking, but strong arms, his little brother's head resting on the shoulder that was always there for him to lean on. One more time._

 _Dean's normally steely face broke, contorting into all the emotions bursting out of him, too strong to keep in anymore. He wrapped his arms around his little brother, unwilling to let him go._

" _SAM!"_

* * *

His last, tortured yell still reverberated in his mind as he stood there, watching over his little brother lying on the dirty, broken mattress in the abandoned town where Bobby had helped carry him. The older man was gone now, chased off by Dean's harsh words and his need to be alone with Sam.

He still wouldn't believe it. He couldn't.

But with Sam unable to give him one of his goofy smiles that always seemed to make even the worst situations the tiniest bit more bearable, he was left grasping for something else, some other comfort. He needed to hear the voice of his other, honorary little brother.

It had been a long time since they'd spoken and even longer since they'd seen each other – about a year if Dean tracked it right. Dean had certainly had his hands full over that time and he figured the job of a super spy was never done. But between him and Clint, time never really seemed to matter.

So Dean dug his phone out of his pocket and pressed Clint's speed dial. It went straight to voicemail.

 _"This is Clint, you know what to do."_

Dean was silent for a few moments. Clint had always picked up. Always. And he _never_ had his phone off. He didn't know whether or not to leave a message or just hang up. Finally he decided that he should speak now before he lost his nerve.

"Clint. It's, uh...it's me. Listen, something...something happened. It's Sam. He—" Dean had to stop for a moment, drawing a hand over his face, wiping away the tears that threatened to overflow. "Something happened and I don't know...I just need to make sure you're alright. So call me back when you get this, okay?"

He hung up and stuffed the phone back in his pocket, keeping his hand there, ready to get it out again when it rang as he believed, hoped, it would any minute now. Clint wasn't big on the warm and fuzzies but he always came through when it mattered. And right now, Dean needed whatever comfort his friend could give him. He was a fixer, more focused on helping others than himself, just like Dean was. He would want to fix _this_. But there was no changing what had happened, no way to make this situation better.

Unless...

The idea struck him, forming in his mind, giving him the small glimmer of hope he needed. It was stupid, insane, reckless. But that was Dean's life in a nutshell so it just might work. And if it did…

If it did, the fallout wouldn't matter.

* * *

Water stretched out below Clint as his jet flew across the Pacific Ocean. He had just spent the past week and a half in the Australian Outback staring at a screen that may or may not relay information from a server in China about a threat that might or might not be credible. Just another crap assignment in a long list of crap assignments during his probation after he brought in Romanoff last year.

Needless to say, the screen had stayed blank and many rocks had been thrown at passing kangaroos. He never hit them, though. His intent had been more to make them jump on command. The far wall, too, had been made a target, the marks made in the wood by his arrows spelling out a rather inappropriate phrase. But now he was on his way home and if he was lucky, which was a laughable thought, he wouldn't have another assignment for a few days.

Despite his level of inactivity during his latest stint as computer babysitter, Clint was exhausted. Soon after setting the jet to autopilot, he had leaned back in his seat and taken a nap. He woke over Hawaii a few hours later and reached for his phone. He hadn't had any cell reception in the vast deserts of Australia so there had been no reason to waste the battery. But now was as good a time as any to check for messages. Maybe Phil had called to tell him he'd earned his freedom. With that thought making him nearly laugh hopelessly, he turned his phone on. After a moment of searching for a signal, it connected to the nearest cell tower on the mainland. Immediately it beeped with a new message.

Dread filled him when the name 'Dean' flashed at the top of his message list. Some instinct told him this hadn't been a call to talk Clint into meeting up for a beer.

 _"Clint. It's, uh...it's me."_

Those few words were all it took for Clint to _know_ something horrible had happened. Dean's voice, it was wrong…it was broken. And as his friend went on, Clint's heart sank.

Sam.

He and Sam had never been close. They just hadn't had the chance. But if something had happened, if Sam was hurt, _dying_ …maybe already dead…

Even as the message ended, Clint was pulling the phone away from his ear. The message was three days old. Too long. He didn't want to think about how much could have happened during that time. He didn't want to think about what Dean might have done.

He hit the button to call Dean back, hoping, praying to whoever might be listening, that it had all been a bad scare. That Sam was fine, Dean was fine…that Clint wasn't too late.

As the phone rang, he reached for the controls to take the jet off autopilot. He'd fly to wherever Dean was if he had to, to hell with the consequences. If his friend needed him, not even the threat of Fury's wrath would keep him away. They were too similar and Clint knew that he would do anything, _anything_ , to save Phil. Dean would do no less for Sam. Clint might not be able to stop him, but he could sure as hell try to _help_ him and keep it from going too far.

The phone rang twice before being answered.

" _Clint, where have—"_

Clint wasn't in the mood for Dean's big brother routine. He cut him off and spoke over him instead.

"Dean, what the hell happened? Is Sam alright? Where are you?"

" _No, Clint, it's fine,"_ Dean assured him. _"Sam's fine, alright? It was just a tricky situation but we got out of it. We always do."_

"A tricky situation," Clint repeated slowly, his tone incredulous. "The message you left made it sound like he was at death's door or already through it. I've never heard you sound like that, Dean."

" _Well maybe I just wanted a little bit of reassurance, okay? You've been MIA for months and things seem to be getting worse in this monster-filled world I live in. And this time…this time was just a bit tougher than usual. But I got it taken care of. Promise."_ Abruptly, Dean changed the subject, turning the line of questioning onto Clint. " _Hey, where have you been the past few days? Or_ months _?"_

Clint recognized the tactic. Hell, he had used it countless times himself so he allowed it…for now.

"Yeah, sorry I didn't hit you back sooner. The Australian Outback isn't known for its cell coverage."

" _You on one of your secret spy missions?"_

"Just getting back from one, actually. But it's not as exciting as you'd think…This year, man, it's been hell."

Dean huffed a laugh.

" _Preaching to the choir. You're talking to the president of the crappy year club. But I think I've got the leg up on this one."_

"Wouldn't doubt that. Mine's not so much been crappy as it's been _boring_ as hell." Except for that first mission in Uzbekistan, but Dean didn't need to know – or _worry_ – about that particular near death experience. "Remind me not to piss off my boss again."

" _What'd you do?"_

Clint hesitated. Dean knew he was a spy, but he had this fantastic 007 idea about it. He didn't know the true nature of Clint's job at SHIELD. And for a guy that made a life of saving people, Clint was pretty sure his friend wouldn't understand making a life as an assassin.

"Refused an order the higher ups really didn't want refused," he answered carefully. He wasn't ready for Dean to know the truth, not yet.

Dean was quiet for a moment.

" _Sounds like a hell of a story. Want to tell it?"_

"Not really, man. It's done now, no taking it back even if I wanted to. Either way, I've been serving crap duty for almost a year now to pay for it."

" _Maybe one day you'll stop talking around the subject with me."_ Dean's voice was sincere, but instead of pressuring further, he changed the subject again, giving Clint an out. _"Hey, there's been some activity over near your neck of the woods. Sam and I could find our way there, maybe meet up for a drink."_

Clint shook his head, not that Dean could see it. "I don't know, man. There's no telling when my penance will be done, but I'm not counting on it being soon. They'll have me back out in the field in the time it takes to refuel the jet."

" _Well, we should try to work out something in the near future, okay? Even if it's just one drink."_

There was something in Dean's voice, something off.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he asked seriously.

" _What do you mean? Nothing's wrong."_

"Don't give me that. What is it? Is it about Sam?"

" _What?"_ Dean sounded honestly affronted. _"No, I just told you. Sam's fine."_

Clint's eyes narrowed. Something was wrong, his instincts were screaming it. If it wasn't Sam…

"Then is it something with you? And don't give me this 'I'm fine' crap because I've used that excuse too often to not know what it means."

Dean's sigh crackled over the line. _"It was too close this time, Clint. I guess I'm just still a bit shaken up about it."_

A half truth. But Clint wasn't letting him off the hook this time.

"How _did_ you get out of it, Dean?"

" _Oh come on, you don't want me to bore you with the details."_

That was it.

"Dean, stop avoiding the question. If you don't start talking, I'll track your phone, fly over there, and _make_ you tell me. And don't think I won't."

" _Dude, calm down."_

"No! Why won't you tell me what happened? What's got you so scared you can't even talk about it? I've got worst case scenarios playing out in my head right now and you dancing around it is just making it worse."

The heat behind Clint's words wasn't entirely fake. He hated getting lied to. And Dean's evasiveness was becoming infuriating. But he was also hoping to kick Dean's big brother tendencies into gear. If Dean thought he was causing Clint some undue distress, he'd be more inclined to fess up.

And if that didn't work…well then Clint would do what he could to piss him off. Anger tended to take down verbal filters with ease.

His first play worked, though. Dean confessed, albeit grudgingly and with great annoyance.

" _I made a deal, alright? Are you happy now? Sam died and I made a deal with a demon. His life for mine. You asked me who I'd pick when it came down to it and I chose Sam. I made the same decision you did with that bullet you took so you don't get lecture me about this."_

Clint felt the blood drain from his face and he had to catch himself before the phone slipped out of his hand.

Sam died.

Dean…Dean made a deal. The logical part of Clint's brain demanded more information, even if his emotional side hadn't quite processed anything.

"If you traded your life for his, how are you still alive right now?"

Maybe it wasn't so bad, maybe Dean had pulled a fast one and everybody was okay.

Dean let out a breath before he answered.

" _When you make a deal with a demon you usually get ten years before they come for your soul."_

"Usually?" Clint held his breath. 'Usually' was suddenly this least favorite word in the dictionary. He already knew, before Dean even spoke, that he wasn't going to like his answer.

" _I got one."_

" _Dean_." Clint said his name like a curse and a prayer all wrapped up into one. "What the hell have you done?" It was said more to himself than to the man he was talking to.

It all made sense now. Dean pushing so hard to meet up. He only had a year…he just wanted to get together one last time.

" _I did what I had to, Clint, and I'm not going to apologize for it. I've been protecting him his whole life and I wasn't about to stop. He's all I've got left."_

Clint frowned.

"Wait, what about your dad?" But he knew. He knew Dean's line of work and he knew how the lives of most hunters ended.

" _Gone."_

There was pain in that word. Pain beyond anything Clint had ever heard from Dean. Something more had happened. He was about to ask for more when he was caught off guard by Dean's harsh laugh.

" _Guess I've followed in his footsteps for so long I saw no reason to stop now."_

Clint wasn't sure what that meant. Dean seemed to be talking to himself more than Clint at that point. It painted a picture, though, a picture of what had happened to Dean's dad without Dean having to say a word.

He was trying to put on a brave face, Clint knew. But he had always been able to see right through Dean and the humor he wore as a mask. He could sense the heartbreak and anguish the older man felt over how his life had turned out.

Clint knew the feeling. He knew what it was to look in the mirror and hate what you saw. But Dean…Dean had less of a choice than he had. He'd been a kid when this had all started for him. It wasn't fair. He hadn't _chosen_ this life. Not like Clint had. He'd only ever _saved_ people. He didn't deserve his life to end like this. He didn't deserve for his life to end at all.

And as much as Clint hated to admit it, he had absolutely no idea how to help him. Demons and monsters – it wasn't his world. Give him an arms dealer or a war criminal…then at least he could do something. Now…in this…he was useless.

And the thought of losing Dean…it hurt. And Clint's response to hurt had always been the same. He channeled it…into anger.

"All that sucks, Dean. But I've got my own pile of crap to deal with so if that's it then I need to go." Clint knew his voice was hard, cruel even. He wanted to take it back as soon as he said it.

" _No…no, that's it."_ Dean sounded confused and hurt and Clint clenched his jaw.

"Then I'll see ya."

" _Clint, wait."_ Clint paused at the pleading in Dean's voice. _"I know what you're doing."_

"Do you?" Clint challenged sharply.

Dean's reply was calm and warm and something close to gentle.

" _Yeah, I do. I happen to read from the same playbook, kid. I know you're pissed, I know you're scared and hurt. You're trying to protect yourself, I get it…But please don't walk away like this. I've only got a year, man, please…I want you to be part of it."_

Clint clenched his jaw, rubbing his hand over his eyes. He and Dean, they were too much alike sometimes.

"I'm sorry," he offered quietly.

" _It's okay, I get it. But Clint, you're…you're family, you know that right?"_

"Yeah." Even if it just made everything so much harder. "Does Sam know?" he asked quietly.

" _Yeah. He's about as happy as you are."_

Clint nodded. As much as it hurt, as much as he just wanted to run the other direction, he couldn't deny Dean the one thing he asked of him.

"I don't know when I'll be able to…but I'll find a way to meet up with you guys. Even if I have to go AWOL, okay? I'll be there."

Dean's next breath was relieved.

" _Thank you, Clint."_

"Just keep me updated on where you are, okay."

" _I will. Take care of yourself, Clint."_

"I feel like that should be my line this time around."

Dean laughed lightly.

" _I think that ship has sailed, but I'll do my best."_

Clint smiled slightly, pulling his phone away from his ear as the line went a moment he just sat there, staring at it. He couldn't help but think that things could have turned out differently, that he could have come up with some other way to save Sam, if only he hadn't been stuck in a place without reception because of these stupid assignments he was being punished with.

And for the first time since he'd made the choice, he regretted saving her. Because by saving the life of a stranger he had damned the life of a friend.

Clint spun his chair around abruptly and threw his phone across the jet, then dropped his head in his hands, mourning the friend he was about to lose.

* * *

 _End of Part 6!_

 _Whew that was heavy! Dean's deal remains one of my favorite story lines of the SPN 'verse - for the tragedy of it and the complete selflessness of it. Is it wrong that I was almost happy with the way it ended? If they'd have skated by and gotten out of it, wouldn't it have taken away the gravity of what he did? *sighs* I'm such a Dean-girl it isn't even funny._

 _Hope you enjoyed this! Drop us a line to tell_ **Arlothia** _how much you liked it :D_


	7. July 2007

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I also don't own Supernatural or any of the characters affiliated with **them**._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Good morning! Here is Part 7 to the SPN/VPU crossover series! This one is over 10,000 words so you're in for a treat!_

 _Thank you to those who reviewed Part 6:_ **patty cake rocks, Sallyc2, amy. .9, oscarthegrouch1812, Sandy-wmd, Carolinagirl117, LEMarauder, jaguarspot, Evarria, Jewls58, anqi602, BlackWidow2531, sammygirl1963, Alfheimchick, RadominatorOwl, penguincrazy, Hillo77, animexluva13,** _and_ **RodeoTown**

 _To the person that asked about Clint's age: this fic is an AU of the VPU. Clint's age doesn't line up because in 1995 when Dean went to Sonny's in SPN, Clint was only 10 in the VPU. At 10 he was busy running away from Phillip Jacobs and joining the circus. So I fudged the timeline a little there in the beginning. Forgive me! :D_

 **EVERYBODY PLEASE READ THIS PART *URGENT*:** _someone, rather rudely, informed me in a guest review, that two different authors can't upload the same story to the site. I was unaware of this rule, or just forgot it since the last time I read through all the rules, and Arlothia and I have obviously both been uploading this on our profiles. This reviewer claimed they were going to report me, so if this story disappears THAT IS WHY. If that happens, Arlothia and I have already discussed it and we'll put the story back up on my profile rather than hers. We're hoping that since our Author's notes are different, maybe we're okay. Anyway, keep that in mind. And as I said up top - IF YOU CAN'T say something NICE - or nicely in this situation - DON'T SAY IT AT ALL. And just send me a hate-PM...seriously. I'm so annoyed right now at the immaturity with which this whole thing has been handled so far._

 _Now on to the fic - enjoy!_

* * *

 _All that I had to hold onto, was that I would climb out one day, and that I was going to torture you. Nice and slow. Like pulling the wings off an insect.  
_ **Meg, "Born Under A Bad Sign", Season 2 Episode 14**

* * *

 _July 2007_

* * *

Dean led the way into their motel room, dropping his duffle at the foot of his bed – the one nearest the door, always – and taking another step forward to collapse face forward on top of the comforter. He was so beat, he didn't even care that the comforter smelled like sex, beer, and cigarettes.

He mostly ignored the sound of Sam following him into the room and setting up shop on the other bed. It wasn't until he heard the tv turn on and the news start blaring through their small room that Dean offered protest.

"Come on, Sam, didn't you get enough murder and mayhem with the case we just wrapped?" he groaned into the comforter.

Sam didn't reply and the news kept on disturbing the silence Dean had been basking in.

" _Sam_ ," Dean growled, forcing his arms beneath him so he could push himself up on the bed, "was I too subtle? Turn it off." He glared across the small room at his brother, but Sam didn't even glance at him. His eyes were, instead, pinned on the tv.

Curious now about what was so interesting, Dean turned, eyes widening as he took in the headline of the news report.

 _High Ranking Cartel Leader Assassinated_

"He was shot with an _arrow_ of all things," Sam commented, "God, Dean, we were just there – where he was killed – _yesterday_."

Dean didn't reply, he was focused on the distant shot of the body – an arrow protruding from the facial area.

" _I'm a performer. I do tricks."_ A young boy told him obstinately in the rafters of a barn, years ago now. Dean had asked what kind of tricks and that boy had proudly told him, _"Archery."_ And even more proudly, _"I never miss."_

Dean sat up slowly, eyes searching the screen now, scanning every face and every detail.

" _What the hell is SHIELD?"_ Dean had asked Clint once.

" _It's a covert agency."_ The younger man had responded.

At the time, Dean had thought he'd just met a real life 007. Now…now his mind was spinning.

"Dean?" Sam called, a vein of concern in his tone, but Dean ignored him.

It was thin. Dean readily admitted that. The likelihood that his friend had just sniped someone with an _arrow_ was so slim it was practically anorexic. A quick call, that's all it would take. If Clint told him he was off somewhere in Eastern Europe being James Bond, Dean would believe him. The spy would never even have to know about Dean's horrifying suspicions.

He reached for his phone.

"Dean!" Sam called again, more sharply.

"Not now, Sam," Dean brushed him off as he hit his speed dial #4 – Sam held the coveted #1 spot, Bobby was #3, and he hadn't managed to bring himself to take his dad of #2 yet.

It rang once, then twice, and halfway through the third ring, Clint answered.

" _Dean? Not really a good time."_

Dean frowned. Clint sounded like he was running, and faintly in the background, Dean could hear waves.

"Sorry, man," Dean worked to keep his voice even, "I was just looking for a drinking buddy."

Sam was giving him a questioning look, which Dean studiously ignored.

" _You know drinking is more your thing than mine, Dean, why can't we ever just meet up for a slice of pizza?"_ Clint replied distractedly, _"Besides I'm not even in New York right now."_

The sound of waves grew stronger, and it sounded like Clint had picked up the pace. Managing to carry on a conversation while running was impressive, doing it without sounding even a little short of breath was practically superhuman.

"Really? Where has M sent you this time, 007?" Despite the circumstances, Dean couldn't help a proud grin at his own joke.

" _So-Cal."_ Clint replied simply. Dean frowned when he heard something like a faint gunshot. _"Look, man, I gotta go. Nobody's in mortal danger on your end, right? I can head your way if you need some back up, I just finished up a gig. I can figure out how to explain it later."_

Dean felt his shoulders drop and he lowered his head into his hand. So-Cal…Southern California. It's where he and Sam had just finished a poltergeist take down. It's where a Cartel leader had just been assassinated.

"No man, we're all good. Just finished up a gig ourselves."

" _All right, I'll hit you back later then. I gotta go."_

Dean didn't get a chance to respond before he heard shouted Spanish and then the line went dead.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean rubbed his eyes and sighed. His 'thin' theory didn't seem so thin anymore. But even so, he couldn't find it in himself to believe that Clint was capable of cold blooded murder. It was a coincidence, it had to be.

"Dean, man, you're freaking me out."

"Can you track Clint's cell?" Dean asked abruptly.

Sam was quite for a moment and then cleared his throat.

"Yeah, since I have his number, I can try. Why?"

Dean stood, thoughts of sleep fleeing. He didn't meet Sam's gaze as he headed for the door.

"Just do it and text me the location."

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam's voice had taken on a stubborn, not to be ignored quality that had Dean pausing with the door half open. He looked back at his brother, who was staring at him with wide, brown eyes full of question.

He didn't want to share his suspicions, not yet, not until they were confirmed. Sam and Clint had only met a couple times and hadn't interacted much beyond pleasantries. If he was wrong, he didn't want to ruin whatever possibility for friendship the two might have one day. They would need each other…after he was gone.

"I need to find him. That's all I can tell you right now."

Sam searched his gaze for a long moment. Then, to Dean's surprise, instead of arguing, Sam just nodded.

"Okay. I'll text you when I find him."

Dean gave his brother a slight smile and finished opening the door.

"Thanks, Sammy."

* * *

Clint scowled into the mirror as he lifted his arm to see the shallow bullet crease on his ribs. He should have gotten away clean, but unlucky timing with a roving guard had blown his exit moments after he took the kill shot.

He was rusty, that's what it was. After a year of shit assignments – his penance for defying the Council and saving Natasha Romanoff – he'd finally been liberated. Phil had told him that he'd be partnered with Romanoff herself now – Fury's orders. But before that, he'd had one last solo-op to christen his return to _real_ active duty.

He needed to step up his training. Being off, even just a little, would get him _and_ his new partner killed. Today he'd gotten lucky. All he'd gotten was a shallow crease on his ribs and a few new bruises. It could have been worse. With any luck, Phil would never even know.

A knock at his safe house door had him snatching his gun off the counter and bringing it to bear in half a breath. Nobody knew he was here except Phil and Fury.

"Clint, I know you're in there. Geek boy tracked your phone."

Clint closed his eyes and sighed. _And Dean._

"Open the door," Dean demanded.

Clint stalked through the small safe house, snatching a t-shirt off the bed and tossing his gun down in its place. He was still pulling the shirt on as he checked the security feed. It was Dean all right. Looking pissed.

Clint's confusion and curiosity beat out his trepidation. He'd gotten off the phone with Dean an hour ago and there had been a distinct implication that the hunter was in New York.

He moved to the door and disengaged the lock, pulling the door open.

Dean pushed his way into the room without being invited.

Clint sarcastically motioned him in after the fact and closed the door behind him.

"Something on your mind, Dean?"

The older man turned to face him, meeting his gaze squarely.

"Did you just assassinate a Cartel leader?"

Clint blinked in shock. How had…oh… _oh_ …that explained the random call. If Dean and Sam had been in California on a job, they probably saw the news report. He'd used a goddamned arrow. Usually, on high profile assassinations, he went the sniper route. But the Council had wanted to send a message to the Cartel. Few things sent a better message than the knowledge that Hawkeye was hunting you.

He kept his face neutral, but he could tell that Dean had already figured it out.

The look of complete horror on his friend's face cut deep.

"You _literally_ assassinated someone. You _murdered_ a human being in cold blood."

Clint remained silent. Either Dean would be okay with this, or he wouldn't.

Dean took his silence for what it was. It was a confession in and of itself. The horror turned into something like disgust and Dean turned away from him. Only then did Clint let his expression crack. Dean was the _only_ person outside of SHIELD that knew him anymore. He was important to him.

And he was losing him.

"How could you do that?" Dean asked lowly, back still to him. "How could you just kill someone you've got no ties to?"

"It's my job," Clint explained calmly.

Dean turned back to him, expression hard.

"Last you told me, your _job_ was some super secret agent spy shit. _This_ is _very_ different. This is murder."

"You trying to tell me that son of a bitch didn't have it coming? He _did_ , believe me. I can show you the file if you need the proof." Clint gestured towards the thick file on the bedside table. He resisted the urge to wince when the graze on his side pulled painfully.

"That's not the point, Clint," Dean argued. "Saving people, _that's_ the business I'm in. I do what I do to _protect_ the living. Apparently, you do what you do to _kill_ them."

Clint lifted his chin defensively. He knew who he was. He knew _what_ he was. He was no saint and he never would be. But he wasn't in this game for the killing. He had to believe in the bigger picture. He _had_ to or he'd never be able to face himself in the mirror.

"That's not why I do this job. I'm not some bloodthirsty killer, Dean. You _know_ me."

"I thought I did…" Dean shook his head. "But you're not the same kid I met at Sonny's. Not even close."

Clint felt his own temper flare as painful thoughts and worse memories came to the surface.

"No, I'm not," he shot back sharply. He wasn't proud of what he'd become, but he would own it. He was doing his best to use who he was to do good in the world.

Now Dean just looked sad.

"I knew something was different…I _knew_ something had changed. But _this_?" Dean sighed deeply. "This is too much, Clint."

"Then go," Clint stepped to the side and waved his hand at the door. "You think I'm that bad? You think I'm some monster, then _go_. I won't stop you."

Dean's jaw clenched and he looked momentarily devastated. Then without a word he walked past Clint to the door, but he stopped before opening it.

"What happened to you, Clint?" the hunter asked quietly. He looked over his shoulder to meet Clint's gaze.

An image of his brother bearing down on him with a knife in his hand flashed across Clint's vision and he clenched his jaw. He hadn't even been able to really tell _Phil_ about what Barney did. He wasn't ready to unload that weight yet, not even to Dean, not even to save their friendship.

Dean didn't look surprised by his silence and started to turn back to the door, only to pause and narrow his gaze.

"Is that blood?"

Clint looked down at his shirt, seeing a red stain blossoming over the bullet crease.

He raised his eyes back to Dean and clenched his jaw.

"I'm fine. You should go."

Dean looked hesitant now, some of the fire leaving his posture.

"Are you –" Dean started, but Clint interrupted him harshly.

" _Go_ , Dean."

Dean was as overprotective as Phil. It'd go against his instincts to leave someone wounded. But once the blood was dried and the stitches were in, the real issue would still be there. It was better if Dean just left.

A clean break was easier for both of them.

Dean would never be okay with what Clint was, that was clear now. Dean was somebody who saved people. Clint killed them.

Dean sighed and pulled the door open.

"Take care of yourself, Clint."

It was a familiar phrase, but every time before it had 'see ya later' feel.

Now it was goodbye.

Dean didn't wait for a reply before he left.

Clint mechanically moved back to the door and reengaged the lock.

He stood there for a moment and then turned away, grabbing his duffle and packing quickly. His safe house was compromised now, he might as well head back to New York. He'd have to get a new cell phone too, with a number Sam and Dean couldn't track.

It was better this way, safer for them. Clint had enemies and he knew one day they'd come looking for blood. Better not to have anybody that could get caught in the crossfire.

He slid on his leather jacket without bothering to bandage the wound on his side and headed for the door. He'd call Phil from the road. Within minutes he was on his Ducati and headed north.

* * *

 _20 hours later…_

* * *

"I'm just saying you might have over-reacted," Sam pointed out quietly.

"Over-reacted?" Dean shot back heatedly. They'd been having this argument since Dean got back to their hotel room the day before. "He's a _murderer_ , Sam."

"He's a government assassin," Sam clarified. "He's no different than a sniper in the military, is he? You going to go get in a returning soldier's face and call him a murderer?"

"Of course not!"

"Then what's different? You told me Clint works for some covert agency. _How_ is that different?"

"It just is!" Dean defended. "You don't know him, Sam, not really. If you did, you'd see how _wrong_ it is."

Sam shifted in his seat in the impala as they sped down the highway.

"You're right. I don't know him very well. I haven't gotten the chance…but I've heard the way you talk about him, so I have a pretty good idea. What you're saying is it's not _what_ he does…it's that it's _him_ doing it…how is that fair?"

Dean stuttered over a retort and then ended up just growling something indiscernible.

"Dean…you knew him when you were kids. Think about everything you've been through since then…don't you think that maybe it's possible he went through stuff to? Do you think it's fair to expect him to be who you knew then? Are _you_?"

"God, Sam!" Dean tightened his hands on the steering wheel. "Why do you have to be so…so…"

"So logical? Reasonable? _Right?_ "

" _Annoying."_

But Sam maybe had a point. Maybe he had over reacted. To the outside observer, what _he_ did as a hunter looked like murder sometimes. It was only those closest to him that really understood.

Like maybe he should have understood with Clint.

With a sigh he looked at his phone. Clint had called him last night and Dean had ignored it. He'd still been too charged to try and make nice. Now he wondered if maybe he should have just answered.

As if spurred by his thoughts, his phone started ringing in his hand.

Clint's name lit up the caller ID.

"Answer it," Sam suggested firmly. "He's your friend, Dean."

Dean sighed and answered.

"Look, Clint, I –"

" _Is this Dean?"_ That voice was most definitely _not_ Clint.

"Who the hell is this?"

" _Dean Winchester?"_

"I asked you first."

" _Actually, I asked_ _ **you**_ _."_

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah this is Dean, your turn. Why do you have Clint's phone?"

" _You were the last number he called…"_

"I'll ask you one more time, why do you have Clint's phone? If you've done something to him…"

" _Dean, my name is Phil Coulson. I'm Clint's handler."_

"His handler…" Dean repeated slowly.

" _I called you because Clint never made it back to New York and you were the last person he called."_

Dean jerked the Impala over to the shoulder and shifted it into park. Fear and worry started warring for dominance as he processed what Phil had just said.

"What do you mean he never made it back to New York? Where is he?"

" _I was hoping you could tell me. I tracked his phone. I found it and his bike in a ditch…there's blood."_

"He's not with me," Dean assured quietly, swallowing back bile as his stomach turned.

He'd ignored the call.

" _That's what I was afraid you'd say."_

"Where are you?" Dean asked decisively. "I'll come to you."

* * *

 _18 hours ago…_

* * *

Clint's return to consciousness was abrupt, but instead of opening his eyes immediately, some instinct told him to play possum. As the world around him started to come into focus, he realized his hands were bound – handcuffs by the feel of the biting metal – with his arms stretched out around a pillar of some sort. His head hurt and his leg felt like someone had taken a power sander to it.

For the moment, he pushed away all the pain and tried to remember what the hell had happened.

"I know you're awake, might as well stop pretending." The sharp female voice startled him. It was as if it had come out of nowhere. He hadn't sensed anyone else in the room.

But as she loomed over him now, her voice spurred memory…and just like that, he knew _exactly_ what had happened.

* * *

 _Clint cursed when his accelerator suddenly cut out, his bike slowing considerably with every passing moment._

" _Seriously? In the middle of nowhere?" he muttered as he lifted his gaze from where he'd glanced down at the accelerator and flinched. There was a woman, standing directly in front of him on the road. He didn't even have time to curse._

 _He just braked hard and swerved. The bike went down, he went down with it, barely managing to push himself away and keep from getting his leg crushed under its weight._

 _Asphalt on jeans and leather did a quick job of slowing him down, leaving his leg practically shredded with road burn. His jacket saved his back and his helmet saved his head. With a groan he rolled to his hands and knees and stumbled to his feet._

" _What the_ _ **hell**_ _," he gasped as he turned around, searching for the woman._

 _There was no one. The highway was deserted._

" _Great…just what I need. A haunted highway."_

 _There was only one thing to do. He'd dealt with a small time ghost once, but had mostly just barely survived until Sam and Dean got to him. He didn't want to even try to handle this on his own._

 _He moved to his bike and pulled it up. Better to get the hell out of dodge and call in the big guns._

 _But when he tried to start it, his bike wouldn't turn over._

" _Great." He lowered it back to the ground and dug out his phone. He just hoped Dean answered._

 _The phone rang. And rang…and kept ringing until it clicked over to voicemail._

" _Dude, are haunted highways a thing? Cuz I think I just got run off the road by a bitch of a ghost. I know you're pissed at me right now, but I'm kind of stranded. Call me back."_

 _He lowered the phone and froze, feeling a sudden presence behind him._

" _So sad…you two in a lover's spat?"_

 _Clint turned, only to get slammed with a closed fist. He hit the dirt, stunned. He'd never, in all his life, been hit_ _ **that**_ _hard._

" _Jesus…"_

" _Not quite, handsome…try taking the elevator the other direction," the woman taunted as she loomed over him. Clint pushed himself up, subtly reaching for the knife in the back of his pants. A hand latched onto his wrist and squeezed sharply until he released the blade. "Now, now, no need to make things any harder."_

 _Clint huffed a sarcastic laugh._

" _Bitch, you don't who you're dealing with, do you?"_

 _He lashed out, kicking her back, and rolled to his feet smoothly. He had his gun out in the next breath and unloaded half a clip into her chest. She just looked down at the tight array of bullets in her chest and then looked up with a smile._

" _Nice try, but it's gonna take a little more than that to slow me down."_

 _Then she was on him, the gun was snatched out of his hand with a painful twist and his feet were kicked out from under him._

" _My, you are proving quite the feisty little fellow…but enough playing around." She flipped the gun in her hand. "You're coming with me." He only had a breath to brace himself before the butt hit his temple._

* * *

That explained the pain in his head.

He opened his eyes slowly, glaring up at the woman standing over him.

"Welcome back." Her smile was sickly sweet.

He licked his lips to wet them as he took a moment to look around.

"Nice digs," he commented idly. "Though the setup is a little kinkier than I usually like." He jingled the handcuffs demonstratively.

She rolled her eyes and huffed an annoyed laugh.

"God, you and Dean really are cut from the same cloth. You sure you aren't related?"

Clint quirked his lips sarcastically.

"So, _Clint,_ " she said his name with a seductive little purr that made his skin crawl, "I bet you're wondering why I brought you here." She knelt in front of him and made a show of gently brushing his hair back from his forehead.

He remained stoically still and did his best to look unconcerned.

"Not really," he sighed like he was bored. "The way I figure it, this is some sort of trap for Dean…probably Sam too. But you put your money on the wrong horse, bitch."

She backhanded him viciously, drawing blood and splitting his lip.

"That's not a nice word, Clint, I'd watch your mouth if I were you."

"Sensitive, are we?" Clint shot back easily.

She stood abruptly and headed out the door.

"Get comfy, you'll be staying a while. Gotta give the grief of your absence time to sink in."

"He's not gonna come," Clint warned seriously. "Me and him, we're done. He turned his back and walked away. He's not gonna come."

He hoped to God he was right – that Dean would never even know he was missing. That even if he did, he'd be too pissed at him to care. He didn't want him or Sam anywhere near this thing, whatever she was. Clint would figure out how to get out of this himself…somehow.

She stopped at the door and turned back, giving him a cruel smile.

"For your sake…you better hope your wrong."

* * *

 _Present_

* * *

Phil was pacing next to Clint's downed motorcycle when he saw headlights appear on the horizon. The growl of a classic American engine greeted him a few moments later and not long after that a black Chevy Impala screeched to a halt next to him.

Out of the passenger side came a tall, gangly young man with a mop of brown hair who looked about Clint's age. He had a kind face and warm eyes. Sam.

Out of the driver's side came a shorter blonde with a fierce expression and hellfire in his posture.

This must be Dean.

He stalked around the Impala like a predator, reminding Phil so clearly of Clint that it was painful.

"Sam, check the bike," Dean ordered as he strode up to Phil. "You're his handler?"

Phil nodded.

"Phil Coulson. You must be Dean. I've heard a lot about you." And he had, Clint talked about his old friend like he was some great American hero, fighting monsters and slaying demons.

"Funny, haven't heard so much about you," Dean replied sharply, green eyes assessing Phil expertly. He couldn't help but be a little impressed. This young man seemed to be cut from the same cloth as Clint, no wonder they got along.

"Well I'm glad to hear Clint only takes his breach in security so far."

Dean didn't look amused.

"He didn't call _you_ , why? He and I weren't exactly on speaking terms," Dean was eyeing him with distrust, like he wasn't certain _Phil_ hadn't had something to do with Clint's disappearance.

"I don't know," Phil admitted. "Did he leave a message?"

He watched Dean mentally kick himself and pull out his phone. He gave Phil a sheepish look that gave away his age and then brought the phone to his ear. Phil watched a frown slowly turn down the corners of Dean's mouth and then he was cutting his eyes over to Sam.

"Sam, you find anything? Looks like we might have a ghost problem."

"Blood, looks like he slid on the pavement." Sam motioned at a stretch of asphalt. He met his brother's gaze. "Ghosts don't usually kidnap," he pointed out as he moved back to the motorcycle.

Phil watched quietly while the younger man examined the bike. He felt his blood run cold when Sam froze, eyes going wide.

"Dean," Sam called lowly.

"What is it?" the older of the Winchesters moved to his brother's side even as Sam pulled out a knife and scraped at something on the bike seat. He lifted the blade up for Dean to see.

"Sulfur."

Phil didn't understand the significance of the discovery, but judging by the way Dean's posture changed…it was very, very bad.

"This is about us," Dean realized quietly.

Phil watched the weight of that realization come down like a physical burden on Dean's shoulders. But instead of dwelling on it, the blonde turned back to Phil.

"You're sure taking this all in stride. You didn't even blink when I mentioned ghosts."

Phil smirked, impressed. Dean didn't miss much, apparently.

"While Clint may censor himself with you, I'm not so lucky."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

"So he told you about me, about what I do…and you just what? _Believe_ it?"

"Son, when you've seen what I've seen…there's not much you _won't_ believe."

Dean stared at him for a moment and then nodded in acceptance.

"Did you find anything else when you got here?" Dean asked as he came back to stand with Phil.

"Just his phone, his helmet, his gun, and his knife." The last of those is what had Phil most worried. Clint always, _always_ had a knife on him. Ever since they'd met, it had been as sure as the sun rise that Clint would be armed with a blade. To find it abandoned in the dirt had been gutting.

"His phone." Dean latched onto that. "Did you check it?"

"Other than to see who he last called, no. Why? What should I have looked for?"

Dean frowned.

"I'm not sure, exactly. But if a demon took him, it wasn't just for kicks. They would have left a way for us to follow."

Phil tilted his head in deference to Dean's expertise on the subject of demons and handed the phone over.

He watched with as much patience as he could as the young man shifted through the contents of Clint's phone. He straightened when Dean paused.

"Found it, coordinates in an unsent message to me. Sam?"

The gangly brunette bounded over and took the phone.

"I'd have to look at a map to be exact, but my best guess is a couple hours north of here."

Phil lifted his eyebrows, impressed. Clint hadn't exaggerated the skills the brothers possessed.

"Get a map. Get exact," Dean ordered and Sam took the phone, jogging back to the Impala. Dean met Phil's gaze. "I'm guessing you won't just let us handle this."

Phil clenched his jaw resolutely.

"I'm not stopping until I know he's safe."

Something like respect and understanding filled Dean's gaze and he nodded.

"Ride with us. The way I drive, you won't be able to keep up."

* * *

Clint worked his jaw, trying to dispel the tightness there. The longer his captor had to wait for the Winchesters to arrive, the more agitated and pissed she got. She'd ventured back in to take that annoyance out on him more than once over the last 18 hours – he'd gained a least two broken ribs and one eye was so swollen, he couldn't even open it anymore. He'd even lost that fake molar _again_.

But her rage burned hot and fast and she'd left him alone more than anything.

And he'd made good use of his time.

It hadn't been easy, contorting his body so that he could reach his boot back towards his bound hands. But he hadn't spent his formative years in the circus without walking away with some long lasting benefits…like flexibility. When he finally got the small knife out of his boot, he'd felt a momentary victory. Until he realized the blade was too wide to effectively pick the lock on handcuffs. He had a new slice on his palm for his efforts.

So he'd spent the next several hours working to break the blade down and file it on the concrete he was sitting on. It had taken time and an amazing amount of patience, but he was pretty sure he had the shard of a blade that was left down to the right size.

He was gearing up to try getting free of the cuffs when his host strode back in.

"Seems maybe you were right and Dean is dragging his heels. Time to turn up the heat."

She pulled out a cellphone and dialed, showing him clearly that she was putting it on speaker.

She sidled up next to him on the ground and waited for the call to connect.

" _This is Dean."_ Dean sounded wary, like he knew exactly what this call was.

"Hi there Dean, been a while. Bet you thought I forgot all about you."

There was a pause and then Dean was practically growling a name.

" _Meg."_

"Actually, it _was_ Sam…and now it's," she looked down at the name tag on the waitress uniform she was wearing, "Destiny." She made a face. "You know what, let's just stick with Meg."

" _Where's Clint?"_

"Oh not to worry, Dean, your little friend is right here. Safe and sound."

" _If you hurt him…"_ Dean's threat trailed off ominously.

"It's a little late for that, Deany-boy," her voice sharpened, "but then if you found his bike you already knew that. You humans sure like to bleed."

" _He's got no part of this life, Meg. Just let him go."_

"That's sweet, you trying to protect him. But you made him part of this, Dean. Does he even know?" She asked as she stroked Clint's hair on his temple. He stayed stoically still, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, no matter how disgusted he felt. "Does he know how your _friends_ usually end up?"

" _Meg, so help me god, if you touch him…"_

"You'll _what_ Dean?" she challenged harshly. "Send me to hell? Been there, done that. The t-shirt fits like a glove. No Dean, I don't think that's how it's going to work this time."

" _And how_ _ **is**_ _it going to work?"_

"You've no doubt already found the breadcrumb I left you. Which means you're probably riding in on your black horse to save him. So the only question left is…will you get here in time?"

She dug her knee into the road rash on his leg with a cruel grin, obviously hoping to get a scream or cry of pain to add drama to the moment.

Clint clenched his jaw and didn't make a sound.

Her eyes narrowed and she dug her heel into his ribs, pressing harshly against one of the breaks.

It took everything he had at that moment, but with clenched teeth and closed eyes he was able to stay silent.

She leaned in close to his ear.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way…it's up to you, handsome."

Clint gave her a smirk.

"Me and the hard way are old friends, bitch." Her eyes narrowed at the challenge. "Give it your best shot."

And she did. She unceremoniously broke the index finger on his nearest hand. Still he didn't make a sound.

" _What the hell is going on? MEG!"_ Dean demanded attention back.

She glared down at Clint, eyes dark with rage.

"Oh he's a tough little bastard, Dean. Seems to think himself unbreakable…but I do so love a challenge. See you soon," she taunted before ending the call.

She slid the phone into her back pocket and leaned in close to Clint's ear.

"I've got to go make a special call to my boss, he's getting antsy about this whole situation. But when I get back," she caught his jaw in her hand and squeezed hard, "I'm going to make it my personal mission to make you scream until you beg for mercy."

She slammed his head back – sending stars sparking across his vision – and then released his jaw. She stood smoothly and strode towards the door.

Clint watched her leave and as soon as the door clicked shut he pulled the knife shard out of his sleeve where he'd been hiding it. Less than two minutes later, one of the cuffs snapped open.

He pushed to his feet and jogged to the door. Locked. Of course. He backed away from it and scanned the room. No windows, but he spotted another door across the room. He jogged to it and tested the handle. Locked. She was thorough.

He could break down the door with little trouble. But she'd hear it for sure. He needed a better plan. He needed a plan that would buy him _time_.

A memory hit him then. Of Dean explaining demons to him over beers a couple months ago.

There was a way to trap them. Dean had shown him a picture.

He looked down at the blood dried on his palm.

It was called a Devil's Trap.

* * *

Dean glanced in his rear view at Sam, somewhat relieved to see him sleeping peacefully. Dean felt exhaustion pull at him too, but he ruthlessly shoved it aside. Clint had been taken, by a demon with a personal vendetta. He was out there, alone, waiting for Dean to come. Sleep would wait.

"He talks about you."

Phil's voice drew Dean's attention and he looked over at his passenger.

"Which for Clint…well, that just says a lot," Phil gave him a significant look.

"Yeah, he's not a big talker, is he?" Dean commented as he shifted in the driver's seat.

Phil just shook his head.

"He's getting better, but most of the time he just _listens_. And he watches. Getting him to rub two words together sometimes is a challenge."

Dean thought of the smart ass little boy he'd met in the barn at Sonny's all those years ago.

"He didn't used to be like that, you know." He cleared his throat when he felt Phil's gaze pin on him. "Back when we were kids he hardly shut up…unless the conversation got real, then it was like talking to a merry go round."

Phil smiled a little wistfully.

"Round and round without ever going anywhere…I'm familiar," he agreed.

Dean could feel Phil's gaze still on him, weighing heavily.

"He called me, you know, after you and he talked."

"Of course he did," Dean rolled his eyes. "For a guy that doesn't talk much, he sure spills his guts to you, doesn't he?"

"Well, I like to think I'm different."

Dean cut his gaze over to the older man. He remembered sitting across from Clint over a year ago, watching the kid call this man family. Listening to him talk about stepping in front of a bullet because this man meant that much to him.

"Yeah, I think you are," Dean allowed.

"But you still don't trust me."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he was always this transparent or if Phil and Clint were just that good at reading people.

"I don't know you."

"But you know Clint. Is that not enough?"

Dean sighed.

"It used to be."

"Not anymore?" Phil challenged. "Because you know the true nature of his job with SHIELD now? That changes who he is to you?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. He was smart enough to know he was being manipulated.

"It changes who I thought he was. The kid I knew back at Sonny's…he was tough as shit and he'd spill blood to defend what was his, but he'd never kill in cold blood."

Phil nodded slowly.

"I never got to know that kid. If there was one thing I could change, it would be to have found him earlier, before that kid got buried so deep he might as well not exist."

Dean arched an incredulous eyebrow.

"Why? So you could turn him into an assassin that much earlier?"

Phil didn't look ruffled by the accusation, but his expression was sad as he went on.

"Dean, if I could do it my way, he'd never even know what SHIELD was. He'd be in college, on an archery team, probably competing in the Olympics. But that wasn't in his cards."

"Then why recruit him? Why turn him into a...a…"

"A killer?"

Dean met Phil's gaze and nodded.

"I don't know what he told you or what he didn't, but you should know that when I found Clint, he was already on this path. I gave him new direction, something to fight for again, something to protect. He has a mission now, a purpose."

"To kill people," Dean stated bluntly.

"To _save_ people."

Dean scoffed.

"I saw his handiwork, and no offense, but that guy looked more _dead_ than saved."

Phil shifted a little to look at him more fully.

"The man he killed a few days ago. Do you know who he was?"

"Some Cartel leader…but he was still a living breathing _person."_ Dean stated firmly.

Phil was unruffled.

"His name was Luis Mendoza. He was a high ranking member of the Cartel, operating throughout Southern California. Mendoza, when opposed by a fellow member of the Cartel, tortured, raped and slaughtered the man's children in front of him. The youngest was a little girl that was only ten years old."

Dean felt his stomach turn.

"A young teenager refused to run drugs for him. Mendoza had him dismembered and the pieces of his body sent to the boy's mother in fifteen different boxes."

Dean had to swallow down bile.

"He ran an underground sex trade full of underage boys and girls from Mexico."

"Jesus, stop, just _stop_ ," Dean pleaded.

"That's the kind of man Mendoza was. You still think Clint wasn't justified?"

"He was a…" Dean started, but trailed off.

"He was what? A human being? Was he, Dean? Was he _any_ better than some of the monsters you hunt? Was he _worse_?"

Dean didn't know what to say to that.

"Clint is good at what he does. He's probably the best agent to come through SHIELD in decades. He's saved countless lives by doing what he does," Phil went on quietly. "And he pays a price, Dean. It eats at him, to do this job. But he _does_ it – because at the end of the day, somebody has to."

Dean sighed.

"All this time, ever since I found out he worked for some secret agency…I thought it was the coolest thing. I thought that I was friends with some version of an American 007. I thought he was some mysterious hero or something…and now? What is he? An assassin? A killer?" Dean just shook his head.

Phil's voice hardened in response.

"He's the strongest, bravest, most selfless person I've ever known. He's the kind of man that would step in front of a bullet to protect a stranger. He's a _hero_ , Dean. But he's also painfully self-deprecating, self-loathing, and insecure. He doesn't see what I see – he can only ever seem to see his own flaws, his own failures. Because of that, _he_ will always judge himself more harshly than you or anyone else ever could."

Dean chewed the inside of his lip. Thinking back on the judgmental, horrified look he'd given Clint when they last spoke. He thought about Clint just standing there and taking it, barely saying a word in his own defense until he finally snapped and anger had taken hold.

Dean hadn't seen it then, but looking back, he saw everything Phil had just said and more. Even as Clint had ordered him to go, his eyes had begged him to stay.

But Dean hadn't seen it.

He just hoped, now, that it wasn't too late to make it right.

" _What_ happened to him?" Dean looked at Phil. "After Sonny's? I know something did, something changed him."

Phil took a deep breath.

"That's his story to tell. He's been through a lot, more than even I know and more than you probably realize. Cut him some slack. He deserves _that_ and more."

Dean sighed and for a few moments they road in silence.

"He's lucky," Dean commented quietly. "Lucky to have you in his corner."

"Well, given the situation we're about to walk into…I'd say he's more lucky to have _you_ there."

Dean hoped he was right.

* * *

Clint stepped back from his handiwork just in time. The door swung open and Meg startled to a stop to see him standing just opposite her.

"Impressive. You'd make a good soldier in our army with skills like that."

"I've got enough demons on my own without mixing it up with your kind. Thanks though."

She started to step forward, but paused and smiled mockingly.

"Did you really think I'd fall for that?"

She looked down at the small Devil's Trap he'd drawn in his own blood right in front of the door.

"A bit small, but very precise. In your own blood too? I don't think even the Winchesters have ever been that hard core."

"Gotta use what you have." Clint shrugged as he stared her down through the doorway.

"I have to say, I'm very impressed with you Clint. But you did forget one little thing."

He narrowed his gaze.

"I'm a demon. A door is just a formality."

His eyes widened. _Shit_.

She stepped to the left and punched through the wall next to the door frame.

Clint turned and ran. He hit the back door at a dead run, leading with his shoulder. The door blew right off its hinges and both he and it slammed into the wall across the hallway. He spared a moment to look back and check the second devil's trap he'd drawn in front of that door.

It was intact.

Meg busted through the far wall fully, sprinting across the room.

He put his back to her…and ran.

* * *

"So those iron rounds we gave you, those'll slow her down but they won't kill her. If you really get stuck, throw that holy water right in her face and it'll buy you some time," Sam explained to Phil as Dean locked the Impala.

"How do we kill her?" Phil asked seriously.

" _You_ don't," Dean replied. "You and I are gonna distract her, get her away from Clint while Sam draws the Devil's Trap. Once she's in that, we can exorcise her."

"Will that kill her?"

"It'll send her back to hell at least," Sam replied. "She's technically already dead."

Phil sighed.

"Great."

"Hey, we do this for a living," Dean assured. Then quieter, "Clint's gonna be fine."

Phil nodded and together the three of them carefully started making their way towards the warehouse where Meg was holding Clint.

* * *

Clint busted through the door to the stairwell at a run, scaling one flight of stairs three at a time. Most people run down when fleeing through stairs, down to street level. Clint, he ran up. He was at his best in the sky. He made it up two more flights before she caught him. She burst through the door of the fifth floor landing, slamming into him with her shoulder and sending him so hard into the wall that the drywall cracked.

Clint turned, putting his boot hard into her chest and knocking her back. She was barely slowed.

He ducked her elbow and then her fist, blocked her knee with his arms, and then slammed an open palm into her short ribs. She doubled and he swung his elbow into her exposed cheek.

She barely flinched and turned back to him with a bloody smile.

"You remind me so much of Dean it's funny, he always thought he had a fighting chance too."

He ducked another punch, thrown so hard her fist embedded in the drywall.

Clint put his shoulder into her ribs and exploded off the wall.

She was taken off guard enough that when he pushed her hard away from him, she actually stumbled back a few steps.

He connected with a punch that left his hand aching and bent her knee inward with a sharp kick.

She just laughed.

"You're almost cute in how hard you're trying," she taunted.

Clint quirked his lips into a bloody smirk and her brow furrowed in confusion.

He drew back his boot in a lightning quick move and put every ounce of strength he had into a straight kick to her chest. She stumbled back, her left foot meeting nothing but air as she backed out onto the open stair case.

Her eyes widened as Clint stepped forward and punched her square in the nose, sending her tumbling backwards.

"Who's laughing now, bitch," he taunted as he watched her fall.

Before her body even settled on the next landing, he was running again. Going up the stairs was too dangerous now. He pushed out onto the fifth floor and headed for the nearest exterior wall, scanning windows as he went. He needed to get out of this building.

He did a double take and stumbled to a stop when he finally saw what he was looking for. He ran up to the window and looked out. There it was, his saving grace.

A fire escape across the alley.

He flipped the lock on the window and tried to open it. It didn't budge.

"Oh come on," he muttered. He slammed his palm against the frame, but it didn't help. "Never the easy way."

He gauged the distance to the fire escape and then back pedaled. When he thought he was far enough back, he paused, drawing in a deep breath. His head snapped around when he heard an angry snarl off to his left.

There she was, bloody and pissed, about 50 feet away.

Their eyes locked.

She took off in a sprint towards him.

He gave her a cocky smirk and looked forward again.

He ran for the window at full speed.

* * *

"This is it," Sam whispered as they came up to a darkly lit warehouse nestled between two other buildings.

"Okay, we stick together until we find him. Watch each other's backs and –" Dean's instructions were cut off when the sound of glass shattering broke the stillness of the night. They all pointed their guns up towards the sound in time to see a lithe body practically flying across the alley. It hit the fire escape at an odd angle and went flipping painfully over the rail onto the metal landing.

"That's him," Phil stated firmly.

Dean started that direction, but Phil caught his arm.

"I got him. You get her." Phil nodded up at the woman leaning through the broken window.

Dean immediately opened fire on her, forcing her to retreat back into the building.

"Sam, let's go," Dean snapped, then to Phil, "watch your back."

Phil nodded and jogged towards the fire escape. He jumped up to pull down the ladder and started climbing.

Clint was already moving, adrenaline probably pushing him into action.

"Clint!" Phil called to let him know help had arrived.

He watched Clint pause, and sink down to the metal landing with a relieved sigh. Phil made quicker work of the five stories between them than he ever thought possible and then went to his knees next to his agent.

"Hey, kid…been without a life threatening scenario for a while, huh? Thought you needed to spice things up?"

Clint laughed tiredly.

"You know me, Phil…"

"Yeah," Phil agreed with a laugh as he started feeling for breaks. "Give me a number."

"8675309."

"Clint." Phil wasn't in the mood for jokes. Clint sighed wearily.

"Like a 6." That was an 8 or 9 in Clint speak. Not great.

"What's the worst?"

"Concussion. Ribs…I don't know…kinda going numb."

"That's the shock trying to kick in. Can you walk?"

"Sure." But he didn't move.

Phil swallowed against his worry and reached for Clint's nearest arm.

"I'll help you, come on, it's not safe. I gotta get you back to the car."

"Okay." But he still didn't move. Instead, he started to go limp and Phil watched his eyes drift shut.

"It's okay, kid," Phil whispered. "I've got you."

He took a moment to check Clint's pulse. It was too fast, but strong. Satisfied for now, he shouldered Clint onto his back in a fireman's carry and started slowly down the fire escape.

* * *

Dean led the way through the warehouse, Sam covering his back as they moved in tandem. They cleared the first floor quickly and moved to the second.

"Dean." Sam nudged him with an elbow.

Dean turned to see what had caught Sam's attention.

There was a human sized hole busted in a wall next to a door frame.

"He drew a Devil's Trap," Sam huffed in shock. "In…in _blood_."

Dean stepped carefully over the symbol as he entered the room.

"Did you teach him that?" Sam asked as he followed.

Dean squatted next to a pillar that had small pools of blood, pieces of metal and an open set of handcuffs next to it. He picked up the knife hilt, examining the narrow shard protruding from it. He eyed the open handcuffs with an incredulous arch to his eyebrow.

"I showed him a picture once," he answered his brother absently.

Sam made a sound that indicated he was impressed.

"He's quite the quick study." A female voice at the door opposite the one they'd come through had them both raising their guns.

"Meg," Dean greeted darkly.

"In the flesh," she smirked down at her body, "well, sort of."

Dean eyed the cluster of bullet holes in the waitress uniform Meg was wearing. There was no saving the girl Meg had high jacked. She'd probably been dead for hours.

"Why go to all this trouble, Meg," Sam asked sharply. "Why go after Clint?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She scoffed. "Ever since you girls got matching tattoos, my plans for revenge have gotten a little more…" she made a show of searching for the right word, " _complicated_. And after hearing how fond dear little Dean was of the little circus act, I just _knew_ that was the next best way to hurt him." She gave Dean a dark look. "Seems I wasn't too far off the mark."

Dean forced himself to smirk as he and Sam slowly backed her towards the nearest trap Clint had drawn.

"You seem more vengeful than normal, Meg. Heard what I did to Daddy, did you?" he taunted.

Rage filled her expression.

"Maybe I failed here, but you'll pay for killing my father soon enough, what have you got left now, Dean? 10 months?"

Dean sobered at the reminder of his deal to save Sam. He didn't let himself look at the expression of sorrow and guilt Sam would be sporting now. She was so close to the trap – a few more steps and a round of bullets would knock her back into it.

She waved a hand and sighed like she was bored now.

"Either way, as you can see, I underestimated the little secret agent."

"Yeah I can see he turned out to be a little more than you bargained for." Dean smiled proudly.

"Until we meet again, Dean." She gave him a sly smile.

"Now, Sam!" Dean shouted and they both opened fire. But it was too late. Even as the body stumbled back towards the trap, black smoke shot out of its mouth. A moment later and Meg was gone.

Dean lowered his gun with a sigh as Sam checked the body. He shook his head slightly, telling Dean what he already knew. He looked around at the room Clint had been kept in and sighed.

"Let's get out of here."

"Why didn't she just possess him?" Sam asked as they made their way back down the stairs and towards the exit. "Like she did me back in January?"

Dean sighed.

"I don't know. Maybe she figured if we smoked her out even when she locked herself in, she should try a different play."

Sam tilted his head a little, like maybe Dean had a point, but he wasn't convinced.

"Either way, it's over," Dean stated. "She flew the coop _again_."

They exited the warehouse at the same time.

"You know," Sam started quietly, "it looked like he kicked some ass in there. He'd be good at this."

Dean sighed. Sam wasn't wrong. With skills like he had, Clint would be an excellent hunter. But he'd never invite someone into this life, sure as hell wouldn't force them. Besides…

"Sam, he's already a hunter…he just hunts a different kind of monster."

* * *

Clint smelled it first – the antiseptic. Next, he felt the texture of the crisp sheets beneath his hand. Both of those indicated a hospital.

 _Great_.

"You awake?"

The voice startled him. He hadn't realized someone was in the room with him. That, in and of itself, was cause for alarm. But then he felt the slight weightlessness of painkillers and he realized his mind was a little fuzzier than normal.

Painkillers and a concussion – no wonder he hadn't sensed another presence.

"Clint?"

Oh right.

He forced his eyes open and met Dean's worried green gaze. He felt his brow furrow in confusion.

Where was…

"He's – and I quote – 'minimizing the security breech bringing you here created'. He'll be back," Dean explained, answering his unasked question.

Clint nodded slightly. That was Phil-speak for stealing files and erasing computer records. If he was taking that step, it meant they were leaving soon.

"He also said some guy named Wilson is 'having a shit-fit' over you getting yourself injured when you were off duty. So...there's that." Dean added, leaning forward in his seat.

"What happened?" Clint asked, clearing his throat against the dryness there.

Dean frowned.

"Do you mean, like, what happened _at all_ or just what happened after you passed out?"

Clint reached to rub at his temple, only to pull his hand away when he felt a bandage there.

"The second one."

Dean sat back with a scowl.

"The bitch rabbited before I could send her ass back to hell."

Clint sighed.

"Great."

That meant the threat to Sam and Dean was still out there.

"Don't worry. She realized she bit off more than she could chew with you. I think you're safe."

"Not me I'm worried about," Clint replied as he groaned his way to a sitting position.

"Why don't you let me worry about me," Dean scolded as he stood and reached to help him. "And safe or not, you need to get some new ink." Dean pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket with a symbol drawn on it. "This will protect you from possession in case she or any others of her kind get any ideas about you. Get it tattooed somewhere on your body."

Clint nodded without question and took the paper. Then he started detaching the various medical instruments attached to him.

"Hey, I get that you're a bad ass, but I'm pretty sure those are there for a reason," Dean scolded as he watched Clint pull out his IV.

"Civilian hospital," Clint explained simply. "I'm not staying."

As if on cue, Phil came into the room. His expression turned relieved when he saw Clint was up and moving.

"Good to see you conscious. I've got a jet waiting about an hour out and a bed with your name on it back in New York. You ready to blow this joint?"

Clint nodded and slid off the bed, wavering a little, but catching his balance on his own.

"Can you give us a minute," Dean spoke suddenly, giving Phil a meaningful look.

His handler nodded slightly and turned back to Clint.

"I'll get the car." Then to Dean, "You'll bring him down?"

Dean nodded.

"Yeah, I got him. If you see Sam wandering back from the cafeteria, tell him to just meet me in the lobby."

Phil nodded again and left.

Clint eyed Dean warily, wondering if now that the immediate danger had passed they were about to have it out about Clint's profession again. Before they got into it, though, Clint spoke.

"Thank you," he said quietly as he met Dean's gaze, "I wasn't sure you'd come…and I mean, you _shouldn't_ have come because it was _obviously_ a trap…but thank you."

He was surprised when Dean's eyes suddenly looked devastated, even his expression remained stoic.

"Clint…I was never _not_ gonna come for you. How could you even think that?"

Clint arched an eyebrow and gave Dean a significant look before brushing by him to retrieve his clothes from a chair on the wall.

He heard Dean sigh.

"Yeah, okay, so maybe the way we left things you might have had cause to doubt." Dean waited while Clint pulled his jeans on – one leg still shredded from the pavement – and then helped him until the back of the hospital gown so that Clint didn't have to stretch his broken ribs to reach back.

That done, Clint pulled it off, wadded it up and tossed it aside. Getting his shirt on wasn't so bad – the morphine in his system hadn't worn off yet, but he knew his boots were gonna be a trick.

As if reading his mind, Dean pushed him carefully into a chair and started helping him with his boots. As he did, he spoke.

"What I said to you, back at your place in California," Dean looked up at him through his lashes and then focused back on the laces he was tightening. "I was wrong. What you do, who you are…" he finished one boot with a sigh and looked up, meeting Clint's wary gaze fully. "We're not so different. You've got your monsters, I've got mine. We both do what needs doing. End of story."

Dean started on his second boot while Clint sat there quietly watching him.

"End of story?" he asked quietly. He could hardly believe Dean had changed his mind so completely. It didn't even seem possible.

Dean met his gaze again.

"I'm used to a world of black and white…your world…it's shades of gray. In a lot of ways, I think you have it worse."

Clint stared at him for a moment, and then smirked slightly.

"Oh I don't know about that…at least my monsters die easy…well, _easier._ "

Dean laughed and finished tying the second boot. He pat Clint's knee and stood.

"There is that. But you handled yourself okay from what I saw. Nice Devil's Trap, by the way."

Clint shrugged off the praise and let Dean pull him to standing.

"All it did buy me a few extra seconds, not much use otherwise."

"Hey," Dean hovered at his shoulder as Clint started for the door, "it bought you however many seconds you needed to get out of there alive. So nice work."

Clint huffed a laugh as Dean matched his slow progress down the hall towards the elevator.

"Does this mean I'm an honorary hunter, now?"

"Clint," Dean clapped him carefully on the shoulder and pressed the down button, "after what you just went through…I don't think there's anything _honorary_ about it."

Clint grinned and stepped into the elevator.

Clint Barton: Premier Assassin and Monster Hunter

That'd make a hell of a business card.

* * *

 _End of Part 7_

 _That was fun, wasn't it? Let me know what you thought in a review :D_

 _I'm gonna spend some time working on Untold Stories, so I don't know when the next part of this will come, but I'm sure Arlothia and I will be back ;) After all, there's still SO much to cover!_


	8. November 2007

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I also don't own Supernatural or any of the characters affiliated with **them**._

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Hey there everyone! I know many of you have been anxiously awaiting a new chapter for this fic and here it is! This was written by the wonderful_ **Arlothia** _, my partner in crime on this project and one of my awesome betas! She did a great job on it so enjoy!_

 _I've already started working on the next part too, so we'll hopefully have that before too long!_

* * *

 _Henriksen: "You think you're funny."  
_ _Dean: "I think I'm adorable."  
_ **Folsom Prison Blues, Season 2 Episode 19**

* * *

 _November 2007_

* * *

"Aw, Hell," Dean said, slamming on the breaks.

Sam lurched forward from where he'd been dozing off in the passenger seat.

"What is it?" he asked.

Dean pointed ahead to the long line of cars on the road in front of them.

"There's a check point ahead."

Sam sat up straighter. "FBI?"

"Judging by the big yellow letters on their jackets, I'd say that _yeah_ , Sam, they're FBI. But, how did Henriksen figure out we were here? We've been on the road for days and we've only used cash. Hell, we've been sleeping in the freaking _car_."

"We don't know it's him, Dean. It could be something else."

Dean gave him a sour glance. Sam's ability to always be the voice of annoying reason was, well… _annoying._

"Yeah, but we're in their database so there no chance we're getting by that," he muttered.

Dean checked behind him, putting the Impala in reverse, and backed down a side street before coming out the other side and high-tailing it away from the roadblock.

Sam tuned the radio to the local news station. The newscaster stated that the FBI had cordoned off the entire city in search of two suspected fugitives. Dean didn't even need three guesses to know who those two suspects were.

"Well, I guess that answers that question," Sam said, turning off the radio. "Now what do we do?"

"Find a place to lay low, for one," Dean replied, mind already sorting through their options.

"But for how long?"

"As long as it takes."

"But Dean, we can't just _lay low_ forever. If we can't get out of the city, then he's going to find us eventually."

"Well, we happen to know someone who could help who also happens to live nearby," Dean pointed out with a half grin even as he snatched his phone off the dash.

"He's a spy, Dean. He's probably half way around the world right now doing something a bit more important than helping out the two of us."

* * *

"Do you have any threes?" Clint asked, peering over his cards with narrowed eyes.

"Go fish," his opponent replied immediately.

The archer picked up a card from the pile between him and the redhead as they sat on the infirmary bed she was restricted to for the next week. Turns out skiing backward through a forest to shoot at bad guys wasn't as easy as it had seemed.

"I don't see why I have to stay here," Romanoff argued. "I can make my way around with crutches just fine."

"But then how would I pin you down to finally teach you all the card games you've missed out on, my sheltered little Russian assassin?" Clint countered.

The spy gave him a look that told him exactly what he could do with his card games. But Clint just smirked, knowing she didn't hate them nearly as much as she pretended.

"Have any Jacks?" she asked, sharp green gaze unreasonably analytical as she stared him down.

Just then Clint's phone rang, filling the room with Rush's _Ghost Rider_.

"Nope," he replied. "But it looks as if I have a joker." He laughed at his own cleverness even as he clicked a button on his phone. "What's up Dean?"

* * *

Clint climbed out of the nondescript black SUV he had checked out from the SHIELD garage and approached the lead FBI agent standing at the roadblock.

"Agent Henriksen," he said, straightening the suite he was wearing and staring down the man through his sunglasses. Sunglasses hid the direction of your gaze, which was a great intimidation technique. Phil did it all the time when he was being all official.

" _Special_ Agent. And who the hell are you?" the dark-skinned man asked defensively, subconsciously standing a little straighter as he felt his authority about to be taken into question.

"Agent Phil Coulson." He held out a card with his handler's "FBI credentials" on it.

Henriksen took it.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, eyeing him warily, obviously still on edge.

"What you can do is take down this roadblock," Clint replied sharply, like Henriksen was an idiot for not already knowing. He'd heard Fury talk like that before, and it always got results.

"Excuse me?" Henriksen demanded. "Who gave you the authority to tell me what to do in my own investigation? I've got two high priority suspects on the loose."

"Your boss," Clint shot back firmly. "Actually, your boss' boss. You are to remove this blockade and head to the FBI Field Office in Knoxville, Tennessee where another case awaits you. One that won't waste the Bureau's resources on a useless manhunt."

"Useless?" Henriksen challenged angrily. Though the mention of the director of the FBI seemed to have made him nervous because he fidgeted with his tie. "I have a solid lead on the Winchester brothers. A source puts them in this town. Surely the director-"

"The _director,"_ Clint interrupted him, "sent me here herself. But if you'd like to call her and second guess that directive, be my guest," Clint offered, holding out a phone to the agent.

Henriksen took the proffered phone, staring at the name highlighted in Agent Coulson's list of contacts. Clint kept his expression stern, but he had to fight down the urge to smirk. He knew not many people could brag to have a direct line to Madeline Cooper herself.

Henriksen hesitated and then pressed the button putting the phone to his ear. Clint waited while it rang and saw Henriksen almost imperceptibly tense when the call was answered.

* * *

 _"Cooper,"_ a terse female voice snapped.

Henriksen licked his lips. She did not sound happy.

"Director Cooper, this is Special Agent Victor Henriksen-"

 _"Henriksen!"_ she barked, her tone had him fighting down a flinch. Across from him, Agent Coulson poorly hid his smirk. _"You better have a damn good reason for interrupting me during a very important meeting."_

Henricksen resisted the urge to wipe at the sweat he felt bead on his forehead.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I wanted to confirm Agent Coulson's order about dropping my fugitive investigation in New York and relocating to Tennessee."

There was silence for a beat. And then, _"Do you make it a habit to question orders from a superior, Agent?"_

"No ma'am-"

 _"Then I expect you to be in Knoxville by tomorrow and the only thing I want to hear about you is what a good little agent you are being. Is that understood?"_ she snapped.

"Yes, ma'am."

 _"Good. Now hand the phone to Agent Coulson and order your men to pack up shop."_

Without another word, Henriksen gave the phone back to its owner and started issuing orders to have the roadblock taken down.

* * *

"That went well," Clint smiled as he walked back to the car.

 _"That was_ _easy_ _,"_ his partner, the highly talented Natasha Romanoff, corrected. " _I thought you said this would be a challenge."_

"It was!" Clint defended as he climbed back into his SUV. "There was no way to be sure if this guy had ever spoken to Cooper before. This whole thing _might_ have blown up in my face."

 _"That's not a challenge, Barton. That's chance."_

"Well they both start with 'c-h-a', so..." he trailed off and shoved the key into the ignition.

He heard her sigh over the phone and smirked. Riling her up had become a favorite pastime.

 _"Just shut up and get back here before he realizes you tricked him. We have a game to finish."_

"I thought you didn't like card games," Clint reminded her. He could practically feel the scowl she was giving him. He chuckled. "I just have one more stop to make before I head back," he continued, as he shifted the car into drive. "And you better not have looked at my cards," he added accusingly.

All he head was a murmured "идиот" before the line went dead. ( _Idiot_ ) Clint figured that was about as close to a term of endearment as he would ever get from the fiery redhead.

* * *

Dean looked out of the broken window of the abandoned warehouse where they were hiding in to see a black car, its headlights flashing.

"That's him," he announced. "Open the door, Sammy."

Sam pulled on the chain to raise the large roll-up door, allowing Clint to drive inside.

"So how'd it go?" Dean asked before his friend had even climbed out of the SUV.

"Easiest mission I've had in a while," Clint replied with a smirk. Then after a moment, "Easiest mission I've had _ever_ actually."

"Thank you," Sam said, "for coming and helping us out. We know you're busy."

"Actually, you couldn't have timed it better. My partner's laid up with a broken leg so we have some time off."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

"Partner?" Dean asked. "You talking about Coulson?"

Clint shook his head.

"No, actual partner."

"When did that happen?" Dean wondered, feeling suddenly out of the loop. It wasn't fair, though. He couldn't expect Clint to update him on every change in his life when Dean didn't offer the same courtesy.

"It's a long story," Clint replied, eyeing Dean with a suddenly critical look. "Speaking of long stories, when were you going to tell me you scored a spot on the FBI's Most Wanted?"

"Technically, I did," Dean answered with a smirk. "That's why you rode in on your white horse like the knight in shining armor you are to save our bacon. And now that that's done, you can tell us _your_ long story over beers. Sammy's buying."

They both ignored the tall man's indignant scoff.

"Sorry, not this time. My partner gets a little stir crazy when she bedridden and I can't, in good conscience, subject the infirmary staff to that."

"She?" Dean's eyebrows flew up. "Just what kind of partner are we talking about here?" he smirked suggestively. "A partner or a _partner_?" His smirk widened as every sexy spy scenario he'd ever seen or heard of sprung to life in his head.

"Trust me, she's not that kind of partner. It's strictly professional. And before you get any ideas, she's way out of your league. Like, you're not even playing in same stadium. Hell, not even the same _sport_. It's like you're playing pee-wee football and she's starting in the World Series."

"Well that's a little harsh," Dean said to no one in particular. Clint and Sam shared a smirk.

"I've been doing a bit of research about supernatural-type stuff," Clint commented to Sam. "Just so I'm not caught off guard again and there's this one bit of lore that's got me stumped. Give me a hand?" Clint gestured vaguely to the back of the SUV.

"Yeah, sure thing." Sam stepped forward like an eager puppy.

Dean threw up his hands. He could tell when he wasn't wanted.

"And on that note I'll go make sure all our stuff is packed. You two nerds have fun." He walked further into the warehouse to where the Impala was parked.

* * *

"What can I help you with?" Sam asked.

Clint waited for Dean to get out of earshot before he continued.

"Faust. Legend says that he made a deal with the devil. Now, some sources say his soul was taken, but others say he was able to get out of it. Do you think this could be a way to save Dean?"

Sam sighed. "I already looked into Faust. There's nothing there that can help. I killed the demon who took his deal and even _that_ didn't work. Apparently the contract is being held by some other, more powerful demon."

"So we go and kill the bastard."

"Clint, it's not that simple-"

"What's not that simple?" Dean asked, walking up to them and twirling the Impala keys on his finger.

"Using Google to find all things ghostly," Clint answered without missing a beat. "Sam says it's unreliable but I call BS."

Dean eyed them for a second but seemed to accept their story.

"As much as I hate to say it, Clint, Sam's right. You're much better off using 'Search the Web' or 'Websummon'. Less monster movie, more Grimm' Fairy Tales."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

"So rain check on that beer?" Dean asked, a hopeful light in his eyes that had Clint's gut clenching.

He sighed.

"I don't know. As soon as my partner is up and kicking, we've got a mission waiting. SHIELD is keeping us pretty busy. But I'll try to get a little bit of vacation soon. I promise."

None of them needed to hear the words to know they were all thinking the same thing. Dean didn't have much time.

The clench in his gut tightened and twisted.

"You know what," Clint amended, "she can learn to live without me for a couple more hours. Let Phil keep her from climbing the walls. C'mon, I'll drive." It would be best not to draw attention to themselves with the Impala what with the FBI still in the area.

Dean clapped his hands together and rubbed them.

"Sounds like a plan! So what are we talking here? Blond, brunette?"

Clint smirked, not even stumped by the non sequitur. Dean was as predictable as they came, when it came to women at least.

"Redhead."

His smirk grew to a full blown smile when Dean gave out an appreciative whistle. Yeah, Natasha Romanoff had that effect.

* * *

"You got in pretty late last night," Phil noted as they made their way to the gym for an early-morning sparring match. With Natasha benched for the time being it was nice for the two men to have some time on their own. "You know, I had to finish your game with Romanoff last night. She was pretty pissed."

Clint smirked. "I bet she was." He took a swig of his blue Gatorade. "I was just catching up with some friends."

"Dean and Sam?"

Clint nodded.

"They were in the state, figured I'd take advantage." The less Phil knew about Clint's impromptu undercover operation the better.

"How much time..." Phil trailed off, apparently unwilling to finish the sentence.

"Six months." Clint felt that clenching in his gut again. He felt so useless in this. Demons, deals, it wasn't his world. He didn't know how to help. Give him a cartel leader or an arms dealer, then he'd know what to do.

Phil seemed to regret bringing the whole thing up and reached to squeeze Clint's neck. Whether it was an apology or offer of comfort wasn't clear.

"I've seen how much research you've been doing. Between you and Sam I know you'll find a way to save him," Phil smiled encouragingly.

"Yeah." But Clint wasn't so convinced. Time was ticking away and they had nothing to go on.

* * *

Phil was trying to figure out what to say, if there was anything he _could_ say, when his phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

"Why am I getting a call from the FBI Field Office in Knoxville?" He gave Clint a question glance. Some instinct told him his agent had something to do with it.

"Oh!" Clint lunged forward, snatching the phone out of Phil's grasp. "That's for me." He pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear. "This is Coulson."

Phil stared, caught between giving Clint a scolding glare and being incredibly curious about what the hell was going on. Clint pretended not to notice the sharp look and continued with his conversation, his tone pitched low and painfully professional.

Phil couldn't hear exactly what was said on the other end of the phone, but the speaker did not sound pleased.

"Well there must be a glitch in their system, Henriksen. You heard Director Cooper-" More yelling. "Well I know for a fact that there is a nasty drug trafficking ring operating in the area and I'm sure the Bureau would appreciate your assistance with their investigation, whether they requested it or not." He hung up the phone and gave it back to Phil without offering an explanation.

"Did that have anything to do with that suite that went missing from my closet yesterday?" he asked. "And the SUV you signed out?"

Clint shrugged, unconcerned.

"It might have, yes. But I won't bore you with the details. Though I would change my FBI phone number if I were you."

Phil just gave him another look before they pushed the gym doors open.

* * *

 _There we go! Hope you enjoyed that one! :D Be sure to take a quick second to let Arlothia know how much you loved it by scrolling on down to type up a little somethin' somethin' ;)_


	9. May 2008

_So it's been a while since we've had an update here. and guess what, this one is LONG. Hopefully it was worth the wait! This, as you remember, is really just for fun. We try to stick to canon for SPN but we, alas, are mere humans so forgive any discrepancies. (though i'm pretty sure Arlothia kept me on track with this one lol) Speaking of, always a special thanks to my co-author for this and beta_ **Arlothia** _. This chapter was mine, but she painstakingly beta'd it and fixed all that needed to be fixed (like I tend to go crazy with ... and she reined me in lol_

 _Anyway, have some angst!_

* * *

 _I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.  
_ ** _Castiel, "Lazarus Rising"_**

* * *

 _May 2, 2008_

* * *

Clint grunted as his back slammed into the mat. He didn't have time to even acknowledge that he barely had any air left in his lungs because he was too busy retaliating. He contorted, hooking a leg around Romanoff's chest and scissoring the other one behind her back. Even as he slammed her down, he rolled up.

Romanoff twisted her way free of his legs and he threw himself backwards, rolling over his shoulder and pushing his hands off the matt. He used the momentum to flow up to his feet and he got his hands up in defense just in time for her to be on him again.

They met each other blow for blow for several minutes, then the heel of her right hand made it past his defense, slamming hard into his shoulder. The same hand fisted and swung back, catching him in the chin and sending him stumbling a step away. Then she was practically flying, legs going around his chest and body twisting sharply to the ground.

He hit the mat hard again and groaned out a pained chuckle.

Her legs unwound from his body and she wearily collapsed down next to him.

"You always _laugh_ ," she accused with a disbelieving chuckle of her own.

"I laugh so I don't cry," Clint replied, still chuckling. "God, I don't think I can move."

Romanoff craned her neck to look at him, a flash of concern in her gaze. He gave her a grin to tell her he was being dramatic. She dropped her head back down and for a few minutes they just laid there and breathed.

He'd never had someone push him as hard, or as far, as she did. Even in the early days with Phil, it hadn't been a workout like this. He hurt. His _whole body_ hurt, but in the kind of way that reassured you that you were getting stronger. It was a good hurt.

He groaned when his phone started ringing where it was piled with his shoes. It took an extra moment for him to realize what ring tone he was hearing and who that meant was calling.

' _I wanna roll with, the gangsters… But so far they all think I'm too white 'n nerdy… Think I'm just too white and nerdy… Think I'm just too white and nerdy…"_

Everything in Clint's body froze.

Sam.

That meant…

 _Dean._

Clint exploded into motion, scrambling across the mat to his phone. He slid his finger across it and brought it to his ear. He felt rather than saw Romanoff sit up, could sense her gaze on his back.

"Sam?"

" _Clint…"_ Sam sounded wrecked. He didn't even have to say the words, Clint could hear the truth of it in his voice.

He closed his eyes, gut twisting.

"When?"

" _Last night. We tried to stop it… We made a move on the demon holding the contract and we thought we had a shot but…"_

Clint clenched his jaw. They hadn't called him. He could have been there; he could have _helped_. But they hadn't _called him._ Dean hadn't even told him the deadline was so close, had in fact refused to disclose that information any time Clint asked.

 _I don't want you focusing on it, Clint. Your gig is too dangerous to have that kind of distraction. Don't worry about me, worry about_ _ **you**_ _._

"Where are you?" Clint asked.

" _Illinois. Pontiac."_

"I can be there by tonight if I leave now."

" _Clint, you don't have to-"_

"Yeah, I do, Sam," Clint insisted, voice unintentionally sharp.

Sam sighed heavily on the other end of the line.

" _Okay,"_ he sounded relieved. _"Okay. We'll wait for you."_

Clint heard the line go dead and slid the phone away from his ear. For a long moment he just stared down at it in his hand.

"What happened?" a quiet voice asked from over his shoulder.

"Uh…" he didn't even know how to say it, how to put it into words. "A friend of mine… He just, uh…" a knife twisted in his gut and he forced himself to just spit it out. "He died."

She appeared at his side, a hand hovering over his arm before falling away without making contact. She opened her mouth to say something, but he stepped back out of reach and shifted towards the door.

"I have to go," he stated blankly, barely noticing her mouth snap closed. He finally looked up and met her eyes. "I have to go," he said again. But for some reason he couldn't move.

She nodded, something like understanding shining in her gaze.

"Okay," she allowed. "I can go with you," she offered carefully.

For a moment Clint considered it. She made him feel stronger, just by being near him. Right now, he needed stronger. Right now, he felt weak. But even as he opened his mouth to agree, he found himself shaking his head instead.

"I need to go alone," he realized. If she came, she'd only be a distraction, an escape from the situation.

Dean deserved for him to leave the distractions behind.

She nodded again, not challenging him and not making the offer a second time.

Clint looked down at the phone in his hand again.

Dean was gone.

The day he'd been dreading for the last year was here. And he wasn't ready.

"Barton?"

His hand tightened on his phone and he drew in a deep breath.

"I have to go," he said one final time. Then he moved, forcing one foot in front of the other until he was headed for the door. He felt her gaze on him until he pushed out of the gym and left her behind.

* * *

Clint looked up when a knock came at his door. He didn't bother moving to answer it. If it was who he thought it was, Phil would just invite himself in anyway. If it was anybody else, Clint didn't want to talk to them.

Sure enough, a moment later, he heard the lock disengage on his door. Phil leaned in and eyed him in concern.

"You okay?"

Clint gave him an impatient glance. Judging by the look in Phil's eyes, he knew what happened. So really, that was stupid question. Stupid questions didn't get answers. So he went back to throwing stuff into his backpack.

Phil sighed and eased his way into the room.

"Romanoff told me you got a call… Is it Dean?"

He jerked his head once to confirm the guess. Phil sighed again and moved closer.

"I'm sorry, kid."

"I have to go," Clint stated as he yanked the zipper on his backpack closed.

"Clint…"

Clint finally turned to face him, slinging his bag onto his back.

"I have to go," he said again. For some reason, it seemed those were the only words his brain could come up with.

Phil's expression shifted, understanding and sympathy rising in his gaze.

"Okay," he allowed. "Let me come with you."

Clint shook his head sharply in denial and moved, shifting past Phil towards the door. Phil caught his arm as he passed.

"Clint, come on, kid. You don't have to do this alone."

Clint looked down at the hand on his arm until Phil slowly released him.

"Yeah, I do."

"Why?" Phil challenged, but there was a hint of desperation in his tone. He wanted to be there for him, Clint knew that. But he just...couldn't let him. For the same reasons he'd said no to Romanoff.

Clint forced himself to draw a slow breath.

"I have to go," he stated once more, firmer this time.

He heard Phil sigh in defeat.

"Okay, I'll walk you out."

Clint didn't bother fighting that losing battle and just started for the door instead.

The walk to the motor pool where his motorcycle was stored was quiet.

It wasn't until Clint was throwing his leg over his bike and jamming the key into the ignition that Phil spoke again.

"How long are you going to be gone?"

Clint shifted the bike under him, toeing up the kickstand.

"A couple of days," he replied quietly.

Phil nodded.

"I'll make sure you're clear. Where will you be?"

Clint brought the motorcycle to life and dug into his jacket pocket for his sunglasses.

"Illinois."

Phil frowned.

"You're driving to Illinois? Clint, that's like a 14-hour drive."

Clint knew that. If he pushed it, he could shave some time off. It would be a long drive, but he'd done longer.

"You can't drive that straight through, especially not in your frame of mind."

Clint tossed his handler a mild glare, the effect of which was lost behind his sunglasses.

"I have to go."

Then, without giving Phil time to protest further, he shifted into gear and twisted the throttle. He thought he heard a 'be careful' hidden in the roar of his motorcycle's engine, but it faded away before he could be sure.

* * *

 _12 hours later_

* * *

Sam looked up from his silent vigil next to Dean when he heard the growl of an engine outside the cabin they were squatting in. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Bobby moving through the house towards the front door. He eased it open and looked out into the night.

"It's him," Bobby announced.

Sam drew in a steadying breath and looked back down at Dean one more time before forcing himself to stand. Dean had loved Clint like a brother. Sam had grown to consider the other man a friend. He'd researched tirelessly right along with Sam, searching for a way out of this.

Sam wasn't selfish enough to believe that he was the only one who had lost a brother because of this. It wasn't the same, he knew, but there had been something real between Dean and Clint. A different kind of brotherhood.

He moved through the cabin and past Bobby out onto the front porch. He watched a black Ducati slow to a stop next to the Impala. Clint killed the engine and toed down the kickstand, then eased himself off the bike and turned to face Sam.

For a long moment they just stared at each other.

There was weariness in Clint's posture. He would have had to drive all day, straight through, to be here by now. Without realizing what he was doing, or that he'd even decided to move, Sam strode down the steps and across the drive. He wrapped his arms around Clint in a hard hug.

This guy had meant something to Dean and Dean had obviously meant something to Clint.

He felt the assassin go rigid under his arms, but he didn't let up. Dean had always hated hugs, too, even when he needed them. But then, after a long moment, Sam felt hands on his back.

"What can I do, Sam?" Clint asked quietly and Sam huffed a broken laugh, finally releasing the other man and stepping back. Clint was so much like Dean it _hurt_. Dean always wanted to fix things as well, to make them better. That instinct is what had brought them to this.

"You being here is enough," Sam assured. "He would have wanted you here."

Clint nodded slightly, eyes straying to the door over Sam's shoulder.

"I'll take you to him," Sam offered.

He started back towards the house and Clint fell into step behind him.

Bobby was hovering by the door and gave Clint a nod of greeting as they passed. Sam stopped at the door to the room where Dean was and stepped aside so Clint could pass.

The assassin didn't even glance at Sam as he moved slowly into the room. Bobby appeared next to him and together they watched Clint move to stand next to the bed Dean was laid out on.

Then, as if his legs had lost strength, Clint went to one knee, eyes pinned on Dean's lax face.

"I'm sorry," they heard him whisper. "I should have been there."

Sam felt Bobby's gaze shift to settle on him. Bobby had told them to call Clint, had insisted that a guy with Clint's skills might have been useful. But Dean had been adamantly against it. Sam had been willing to give Dean anything he wanted at that point, so he'd agreed that Clint be left out of the loop.

Maybe it had been a mistake. But it was too late now. Now they could only move forward.

Suddenly Clint was standing, backing away from the bed and brushing past them towards the front door. Sam watched him and then looked back to Dean, torn.

Bobby's hand gripped his shoulder.

"I'll deal with him."

Sam nodded, grateful, and moved into the room to resume his vigil.

* * *

Bobby took a deep breath and headed towards the porch. He wasn't sure what to prepare for. He'd dealt with everything from Sam's screaming temper tantrums as a teen, to Dean's sullen quiet bouts of self-recrimination, and to John's angry, shouting self-righteousness.

He'd only met this kid Barton once, in the process of saving his life. But he liked him. He liked that, from what Dean had said, this kid was made of stronger stuff than steel. He'd faced Meg on his own and lived to tell the tale. And he'd been a friend to Dean when that particular commodity ran pretty thin for the older Winchester.

He found Barton standing next to his motorcycle, keys in hand.

Ah, so he was a runner.

But Barton wasn't _on_ the bike and that was something. Bobby approached slowly, not wanting to spook him.

"I should have been there," Barton stated suddenly, not turning. His voice was hard, but there was something else in it, something broken that made Bobby think of Dean. Dean always hid his pain behind toughness, too.

"That's what I said," Bobby replied with a low huff.

Barton turned then, gaze questioning. He wanted to know why the hell he hadn't been called.

"Dean didn't want you involved," Bobby explained.

He watched something like hurt flash through Barton's gaze before the young man turned away again. Bobby felt his heart pull. How many times had he seen that same look in Dean's eyes? Put there by both John and Sam in equal turn. Bobby found himself just as powerless to stay silent _now_ as he had then.

"He wanted to protect you," Bobby explained.

Barton scoffed and shook his head, gaze settling on the sleek lines of the Impala.

"He did," Bobby insisted.

"I didn't _need_ him to protect me," Barton snapped lowly. "I should have _been_ there."

Bobby sighed.

"I know," he allowed.

He watched Barton's head lower and slowly shake, like he couldn't quite come to grips with what was happening.

"When was the last time you slept?" Bobby asked, unable to stop himself.

Barton just ignored him and lifted his head again and fished his phone out of his pocket.

"When are we doing this?" he asked.

Bobby hesitated, thinking of Sam's insistence to forgo the usual traditions. Barton turned, sharp gaze pinning Bobby in place.

"Sam wants to bury him."

Barton's gaze narrowed.

"I thought hunters did the whole funeral pyre thing."

Bobby frowned.

"We do. But Sam's got it in his head that he's gonna bring him back and that Dean will need his body when he does. He wants to bury him somewhere he won't be disturbed."

Barton frowned, looking away again.

"You mean somewhere no one will notice if you guys go digging him up."

Bobby inclined his head in agreement. He didn't like this idea, not one bit. But Sam refused to be swayed.

"Can he?" the young man asked suddenly. "Bring him back?"

Bobby just shrugged and sighed.

"Who the hell knows."

Barton's frown deepened, but he remained silent after that.

Bobby wasn't certain how long they stood there, Barton staring at the Impala and Bobby staring at Barton, before a sound on the porch had them both turning.

Sam stood there, looking grim.

Bobby sighed deeply.

It was time.

* * *

"Are you sure you wanna do this, Sam?" Bobby asked as he and Clint followed Sam back inside.

Sam turned slowly from where he'd been headed back to Dean.

"Yeah, Bobby. What the hell else would we do?"

Clint could hear the edge in Sam's voice, and he shifted warily, gaze drifting back and forth between them as Bobby squared his shoulders.

"Give him the hunter's funeral he deserves," Bobby suggested firmly.

"No!" Sam snapped. "We're not burning him. We've been over this Bobby! We need to find the nearest crossroads and make a deal for him!"

"No, Sam," Bobby argued immediately. "That kind of thinking is what got us into this mess."

"You think I don't know that?" Sam shouted. "I _know_. But if it can bring him back…"

"Sam, _listen_ to yourself! Dean knew exactly what he was doing when he made that deal. He knew what would happen. Now I went along with you when you wanted to bury him. But I'm not going to let your sell _your_ soul, too."

"You let Dean," Sam accused lowly.

Clint shifted, subtly moving so he was positioned between them if this came to blows.

Open hurt and then anger flashed through Bobby's expression.

"I wasn't _there_ for Dean. If I _had_ been I would have stopped him!"

"I have to do something, Bobby! I have to bring him back!"

"You can't, Sam!" Bobby finally snapped. "Dean is _dead_. And it kills me, too. But if there's one thing I've learned here is that dead needs to stay dead! Your brother deserves to be put to _rest_!"

Sam silently fumed and then turned his fiery gaze to Clint. He was asking for help, for back up in this. He was asking Clint to pick up the mantel and fight with him to bring Dean back.

Clint stiffened.

He wanted Dean back, _alive_ , more than anything right now. But… But he knew Dean and he knew exactly what Dean would want him to do.

"No, Sam," he said quietly. "Dean wouldn't want this."

He was unprepared for the punch to cheek. He honestly hadn't seen it coming. He stumbled a step to the side and felt his own hand clench defensively. He felt Bobby's hand on his arm, silently telling him to stand down, to not escalate things.

"Don't tell me what he would want, you didn't _know him_ ," Sam accused acidly. His angry gaze turned on Bobby. " _Either_ of you."

Then he was storming past them for the door.

"Sam," Clint reached out and caught his arm. He was ready for _this_ punch, but he let it land anyway, let it hit him so hard he knew it would leave a mark. Sam needed an outlet, Clint understood. Bobby, on the other hand, didn't stand passively by. He shoved his way between the two of them and put his back to Clint, shielding him from Sam's fury.

"Sam, _think_ about this. Think about what your brother would want."

Sam just glared, then turned and stomped to where Dean was laid out. He gathered his brother in his arms and stormed out of the house.

Bobby pursued with Clint only a few steps behind. Sam had climbed into the bed of the truck with Dean and everything about his posture and the glower on his face warned against trying to join him or coax him into the cab.

So after Bobby jerked his chin at Clint and wordlessly told him to get moving, Clint climbed into the cab of the old truck and closed the door.

* * *

Clint slowly climbed out of the bed of Bobby's truck - he'd insisted Sam ride inside on the way back - after it stopped outside of the cabin and looked towards his bike, wondering if he should just take off.

"Don't even think about it, ya idjit," Bobby growled as he climbed out of the truck and slammed the door closed. "Inside, _both_ of you." Bobby shifted his glare from Clint to Sam, who'd appeared from the other side of the truck.

Clint thought about protesting. Now that Dean was buried, he didn't feel like he belonged here.

"Boy, don't make me _tell_ you again."

The gruff growl had Clint moving. He started towards the house, but stopped when he saw Sam moving the opposite direction.

"Sam?" Bobby called out.

But Sam didn't even respond. He'd been silent all through the funeral, too. He just jerked open the door to the Impala and climbed in.

"Sam!" Bobby shouted, moving towards the car even as it roared to life.

Sam didn't even look at the old mechanic as he slammed the car into reverse and backed it up.

A moment later all that was left of him was a cloud of dust and some divots in the gravel.

Clint stayed rooted on the spot, watching it all unfold. He was still standing there when Bobby came slowly back towards him.

"Come on," Bobby insisted gruffly.

Feeling numb, Clint followed him inside.

Bobby moved ahead to the kitchen area, but Clint drifted to a stop in the living room. Bobby reappeared with a damp towel, motioning towards Clint's face.

"You've got some…" Bobby motioned at Clint's face vaguely and Clint became suddenly aware of the stiffness of dried blood on his head.

Clint took the towel and pressed it to the cut Sam's fist had opened above his eyebrow.

"Sit down." Bobby nodded towards the ratty couch but didn't touch him, didn't try to nudge him. For that Clint was grateful.

He eased down onto the couch and pulled the towel away. It felt like he'd opened the cut again.

"It's bleeding again," Bobby grumbled. "You need stitches. Stay put."

Bobby disappeared from the room for a moment and came back with a battered First Aid kit in his hands. He lowered himself down onto the coffee table across from Clint and flipped the kit open. Clint reached out and stopped him.

"I can do it," he insisted.

The look Bobby gave him made him feel like a child.

"I'm sure you _can_ , but I'm not about to sit by and let you stitch _yourself_ up," he growled.

Clint hesitated, then drew his hand back. Dean had trusted this man, had called him family. If that alone hadn't been enough to earn the benefit of the doubt, the emotion he could see in Bobby's eyes did it. From what Clint knew of the old mechanic, Bobby had buried a son today. And had just watched another son storm off, hell bent on self-destruction.

He obviously needed something to focus on. That was fine. Clint did, too.

"Just better make sure those stitches are neat and straight, old man."

Bobby started, then huffed a laugh.

"I ain't a seamstress, but I've never had any complaints."

Clint quirked the corner of his mouth in a grin and let Bobby get to work. While he carefully cleaned the wound, Bobby cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry about Sam. That boy's always let his emotions do the talking and he's just…" Bobby sighed.

"His brother died," Clint finished. "I get it."

Bobby's gaze assessed him curiously then, and for some reason Clint found himself explaining.

"My parents, when I was a kid. My brother let his emotions do the talking too."

Bobby arched his eyebrow at the revelation that Clint had a brother but didn't question him further. Instead, he reached for the sterile stitch kit and readied it.

"Maybe I should have let you hit him back," Bobby grumbled as he pushed the needle through the skin above Clint's eyebrow.

"No," Clint sighed. "That would've just made it worse I think."

Bobby grumbled something under his breath and fell silent. A few moments later he slathered some antibiotic across the cut and taped down some gauze.

"There you go. You won't be winning no beauty contests anytime soon, but at least you ain't bleeding."

Clint nodded his thanks and moved to stand.

"No," Bobby denied sharply.

Clint raised his gaze, startled by the harsh command.

"If you're gonna be driving back to wherever you came from, you need sleep."

"Bobby, I…"

"No, dammit. _Somebody_ is going to listen to sense today. Now lay your scrawny ass down and _sleep_."

Clint's brow furrowed at being called ' _scrawny'_ but he didn't try to rise again. He was at an impasse now. He trusted Bobby, in so much that _Dean_ had trusted him. But letting his guard down enough to sleep was out of the question.

Bobby sighed, and seemed to realize what he was asking.

"Dean'd have my hide if I let you take off on that motorcycle without getting some rest. I know you're packin' some heat," Clint thought of the gun and knife both hidden at the small of his back, "so if I make a wrong move, you have my permission to shoot me."

Clint couldn't help the grin that turned up the corners of his mouth. He made a show of pulling out his gun and kept it in his grip as he shifted to lie down. He draped the gun across his chest and cocked an eyebrow at Bobby, silently asking ' _happy?'_.

Bobby just rolled his eyes and strode out of the room, flipping off the light as he went.

To Clint's surprise, sleep came quickly.

* * *

A few hours later, Bobby peaked into the living room, cradling a beer in his hand.

Barton had shifted in the hours since Bobby had left him. He was curled on his side now, gun nestled under the throw pillow he'd settled his head on.

He eyed the bandage on the young man's head and fought down the urge to find Sam and return the favor. But if he did that, he'd have to drag John out of hell and throttle him, too, because they were cut from the same cloth. John had always taken his pain out on the people closest to him, usually Dean. He'd only been violent once, and Bobby had grabbed his shotgun then and run the man off. He never could tolerate a man who hit his own children. No, John's favorite weapon was his disappointment. He had been an expert at making Dean feel like a failure, at manipulating the boy to bend to his will.

Sam had learned that lesson well, and when he'd gotten older he'd started using the same tactics.

Bobby had sat back and watched as Dean took verbal and emotional hits from all sides, watched the boy stand stoically through the storm because he cared too much to ever walk away, to ever shield himself when someone he loved need a proverbial punching bag.

He'd seen that same quality in Barton today, as the young man had squared off with Sam and _let_ him land a second hit. He'd seen the resolve to be whatever Sam needed, to take whatever hits Sam needed to throw.

And Bobby hadn't been able to stomach it a second time.

He'd failed Dean. He hadn't stepped between Dean and John or Dean and Sam. He hadn't pulled Dean away from the shouting arguments and told him it wasn't his _job_ to play mediator.

He'd failed Dean before, but he refused to fail him again.

Whoever this boy was, whatever he'd been to Dean, he'd mattered. He'd seen the truth of that when Dean had adamantly, and passionately, refused to pull Barton into this final fight.

" _He's not a part of this, Bobby! He's not in this world! It's too late for me to protect Sam, but I'm damn well going to protect Clint. I'm not calling him. That's the end of it."_

Bobby found himself idly wondering what Dean would have done if he'd seen Sam throw that punch. Would he have stopped him, defended Barton against his brother? More likely, he would have stepped forward, taken the hit himself instead. That was Dean.

Bobby started when the figure on the couch stirred, waking abruptly.

He eased back behind the door frame and watched Barton climb off the couch, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Then he glanced around, found a pad of paper on the coffee table and searched briefly until he found a pen. One hastily scribbled note later, he was heading silently for the door.

Bobby moved into the living room even as he heard the motorcycle growl to life.

He picked up the note and looked it over.

 _Bobby, I suck at goodbyes. Thanks for the patch work._

 _-Clint_

 _PS – You breathe louder than most people snore. I know you watched me leave. Thanks for not making it awkward._

Bobby huffed a laugh and crumbled the note up, tossing it in the trash as he headed to the kitchen for another beer.

* * *

 _October 14, 2008_

* * *

Clint rolled his neck tiredly as he resumed manually piloting the jet. In the co-pilot seat next to him, his partner stretched.

"About 30 minutes out," he told her, eyeing the GPS.

She nodded and took a swig from her water bottle. When she held it out to him, he took it gratefully and took a long swallow. He handed it back and reached for his phone when it rang.

There was no specialized ring tone, so he eyed the display before answering.

He didn't recognize the number. Arching a curious eyebrow, he slid his finger across the screen and brought it to his ear.

"Barton."

For a moment there was no response. Clint pulled the phone back and checked to make sure the call was connected. Romanoff shot him a questioning look and he shrugged.

"Who is this?" he asked into the phone.

" _It's me."_

Clint felt the blood drain from his face.

"Dean?"

He saw Romanoff stiffen next to him. She knew about Dean now; she knew the story and that Dean was supposed to be dead.

" _In the flesh."_

"What… _How_?"

" _Long story, man. What matters is I'm back."_

Clint swallowed thickly, mind whirring.

"Where are you?" he finally asked.

" _Ohio. Headed to Pennsylvania for a gig."_

Clint frowned. A gig? He was already hunting again?

"Dean…"

" _Just meet me, huh? I'll text you a place."_

Clint found himself agreeing and the line went dead.

He lowered his phone and stared at it. A moment later a new text came in.

"What's going on?" Romanoff asked quietly.

"We need to make a detour," he answered, already adjusting the controls.

"Okay," she allowed without argument. "You gonna tell me where and why?"

He turned to meet her gaze.

"That was Dean."

She nodded, obviously having gathered that fact when he'd said Dean's name multiple times on the phone.

"He's alive," he went on with stating the obvious, but he couldn't wrap his head around it.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"Ohio."

She nodded again and fell silent. But after a moment she shifted in her seat.

"But how?"

Clint just shook his head.

"I don't know."

* * *

Clint led the way into the bar Dean had instructed him to meet at. His partner hovered at his shoulder, eyes sweeping the space for threats. He appreciated her caution, because he only had eyes for one patron.

Dean was sitting at the bar, nursing a beer.

"Dean," Clint found himself stating as he moved toward him.

His friend turned at his voice.

"Clint," Dean greeted, standing and unpredictably snatching Clint's shoulders and pulling him into a hard hug. "Damn good to see you," Dean muttered gruffly.

"You're tellin' me," Clint huffed, eyeing Dean critically when the older man pulled back. He didn't look any worse for wear.

"And who is this?" Dean smiled charmingly at something, rather _someone_ , over Clint's shoulder.

"My partner," Clint shifted, giving her a clear line of sight to Dean, "Natasha Romanoff. This is Dean Winchester."

Dean's smile brightened even more.

"Ah, the famous partner. Clint's description of you did _not_ do you justice."

Clint felt his hackles rise a little when Dean made no effort to hide the attraction in his gaze. Next to him, Romanoff just arched a dismissive eyebrow and looked at Clint.

"I'll give you two some time. Find me when you're ready."

He nodded and she disappeared into the crowd.

"Damn, boy, talk about holding out. She's–"

"Deadly," Clint interrupted as they both slid onto bar stools. "And way out of your league, remember? You wouldn't be able to handle her, trust me."

Dean's smirk didn't fade.

"I guess _you_ would know," he teased. "You two, uh…" he waggled an eyebrow suggestively.

Clint glowered.

"No."

"Dude, why _not_?"

Clint cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.

"We're not here to talk about _me_. Wanna tell me how you're not dead?"

Dean's expression morphed from teasing to understanding in a second flat.

"Oh I get it. You actually _like her_."

Clint glared. He didn't know _how_ he felt about Natasha Romanoff, and he wasn't about to start analyzing it now.

"The not _dead_ thing?" he asked again, more forcefully. "I was there when they buried you. Seemed kinda final."

Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah. You ever been buried alive?"

It was obviously meant to be rhetorical, but Clint arched a brow and tilted his head a bit in admittance. Dean's eyes widened.

" _Dude,_ when?"

Clint shrugged.

"A couple years back." Then Clint frowned. "Wait, did you come back _in there_? In the grave?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably on his stool and that was answer enough.

"Dean…" Clint shook his head, eyes wide with sympathy. "Sam and Bobby didn't get you out before bringing you back?"

The hunter sighed deeply.

"It wasn't Sam and Bobby's doing."

Clint frowned, confused.

"Then how the hell are you back?"

Dean just shook his head and waved him off.

"Long story, remember? Really don't wanna relive it right now."

Even though Clint wanted more than anything to push until Dean spilled the truth, he let it go instead. He didn't like talking about Uzbekistan and his too-close call there, so he got it.

"So you're on a job?" he asked instead, letting Dean off the hook.

Dean took a drink of his bear and nodded.

"Goin' after a vamp in Pennsylvania."

"Sam with you?"

Another nod. Clint glanced around, looking for the mop of brown hair but not finding it.

"So where is he?"

Dean took another drink but shook his head this time.

"He's back at the hotel. Didn't seem to want to see you; said you two didn't exactly keep in touch." The bitter anger that was laced through Dean's words had the back of Clint's neck tingling warily.

"Yeah, you could say that."

Dean shook his head and took a drink from his beer. Clint frowned.

"How are you mad at _me_?"

"How am I…? You were supposed to keep an eye on him. You and Bobby, you were supposed to look out for him after I left."

Clint frowned incredulously.

"After you _left_? You've got to be kidding me. You _died_ , Dean," Clint hissed. "And he didn't take it well." Neither had Clint or Bobby for that matter.

"All the more reason that _you_ should have been there, to look out for him."

Clint blinked, remembering whispered words to Dean's corpse five months ago.

" _I'm sorry. I should have been there."_

Something in him snapped.

"Fuck you, Dean."

Dean's eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in anger.

"Last I checked, me _being there_ was the last thing you wanted," Clint growled lowly.

"Seriously?" Dean shot back. "You're gonna whine about me not calling you for the final fight? Don't be a little bitch, Clint. You had no place there."

Whether Dean meant it the way Clint took it or not, the barb _stung_.

"You're a selfish bastard, Dean."

" _Me_?" Dean scoffed.

"You sit there and lecture me about not keeping tabs on Sam and then in the same breath tell me I don't belong in your world. Which is it?"

* * *

Dean glared at his friend, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Clint's words.

Sam was using his powers. Sam was killing demons with his _mind_. Nobody had stopped him, nobody had kept him from going down this road. And right now, Dean needed someone to blame. He wanted to blame Sam, but… Sam was Sam. Sam was his baby brother.

And Clint? He wasn't. It wasn't fair, but right now Dean didn't care about fair.

He had an angel riding his ass and the threat of a super powered brother.

Clint was here. Clint was an easy outlet.

"I thought I could trust you," he spat.

Hurt lanced through Clint's gaze before it disappeared behind steel strong defenses.

"I tried to stop him, Dean. You know what I got for my trouble? A fist to the face _twice_. So forgive me if I didn't chase after him to play punching bag."

"You should have tried harder," Dean accused.

"This isn't on _me,"_ Clint shot back. "He started yelling about making a deal. Where the hell do you think he learned that from? You wanna be pissed at someone? _You're_ the one who set the fucking example!"

Dean struck out without thinking, catching Clint hard in the mouth. Even as his friend scrambled to keep himself from falling off his stool, a strong hand caught Dean on the shoulder. A breath later he was pressed back on the bar with a forearm on his windpipe.

A pale face framed in fiery red hair loomed over him.

"It's okay," Clint stated firmly. "Let him go."

Dean watched Natasha Romanoff slide a gaze over to Clint, but the pressure on his throat didn't relent.

"It's okay," Clint said again, softer this time.

With seemingly great reluctance, the woman backed away, letting Dean straighten.

Dean arched an eyebrow. If these two weren't a thing, it was only a matter of time. They were kidding themselves if they thought there was nothing there. The way Natasha was glaring at Dean now suggested that he was lucky Clint had spoken up when he did.

He rubbed at his throat and eyed her warily.

Clint's hand latched onto Dean's arm, dragging him towards the door. A flash of red told Dean Romanoff was following.

Once they were outside and away from the prying eyes of the bar's patrons, Clint rounded on him.

"I tried to stop him, Dean. He wouldn't listen to me."

Dean sighed. He realized now they were talking about two different things. Clint didn't know what Sam was doing and why would he? Dean hadn't _told_ him. Clint thought Sam had gone and made a deal or something. Dean closed his eyes, berating himself for taking out his own fears and frustrations on the one person who _didn't_ deserve it.

"I've been back for three weeks, Clint," he stated abruptly. He needed to clear the air. They needed to restart this conversation on even ground.

He watched Clint's eyes widen in shock, saw his fists clench at his sides. He waited for the punch, but it never came. Instead, Clint turned from him, pacing a few steps away to put some distance between them.

"You can hit me, you know," Dean tried. "I deserve it and you kind of owe me one."

Clint, back still to him, just shook his head sharply, spitting out a harsh and sarcastic laugh. Dean watched Romanoff shift, eyes on Dean, but body angled towards Clint. Her gaze was hard and unforgiving. Dean hadn't won any favor by sucker punching her partner.

"Say something, Clint. Hit me. Yell at me."

Clint's hand went up to rub tiredly at his eyes.

"I'm not going to hit you. I don't _hit_ the people I care about."

Dean winced, flashing back to a 13-year-old little boy with scars on his back. Guilt gnawed at him.

"I'm sorry," he offered sincerely. "I shouldn't have punched you."

Clint turned then, seeming to unconsciously drift closer to Romanoff even as he faced Dean again.

"Three weeks? Three _weeks,_ Dean? And what? You didn't think I merited a phone call?"

The guilt in his gut doubled.

"I'm sorry. It's been kind of a shit storm."

But Clint was having none of it.

" _Jesus_ , Dean! 30 seconds. That's all it would have taken. Hell, you could have just shot me a goddamned _text_."

Dean sighed. God, he _was_ an ass. He rubbed at his forehead, willing away the headache taking hold.

"Clint…"

"You know what, save it. I get it. Message received, Dean. It's my own fault for being so damned slow on the uptake."

Then Clint was jerking his chin at his partner and she was falling into step with him as he stalked away.

What the hell?

"Clint, wait."

"Why did you even call me, Dean?" Clint snapped, turning to face him. Romanoff stayed at his shoulder, posture coiled for a fight. "You don't _want_ me here. You didn't want me there _then_ and you don't want me here _now_. Three _weeks_? And you can't find a minute to pick up the damned phone? That _says_ something. It says it loud and fucking clear."

Dean blanched. That hadn't been… That wasn't… _God_ , how had he made such a mess of this?

"I'm sorry," he offered. "I'm so damn sorry, Clint. That wasn't what that was about. You're _family_ , you know that."

"Do I?" Clint challenged shaking his head helplessly. "Because all the evidence seems to point to the opposite. And I get it, okay? It's fine. You have Sam. You have Bobby. You don't need me. So stop _lying_ to yourself and stop lying to me."

Then Clint was walking away again. Dean knew he had to do something. He had to _say_ something or this would end and he'd never see Clint again. How could he justify it? How could he explain that he'd barely had a second to _breathe_ since he came back.

Maybe… Maybe he just needed to lay all his cards on the table.

"I went to hell," he blurted.

He watched both Clint and Romanoff freeze.

"The literal _hell_. Like suffering and eternal torment… All that shit."

Clint turned back then, eyes wary.

"And an actual honest to God _angel_ dragged my ass out. I told Sam I don't remember it; I didn't want him to worry about me. But uh…" Dean felt emotion rising in his chest as flashes of the _years_ he'd spent there played across his vision.

"You remember all of it," Clint finished for him.

He nodded, biting his lip to keep his emotions in check. He watched Clint whisper something to his partner, to which she nodded and walked away. Then Clint was headed back towards him.

"Why are you telling me this?" his friend asked carefully.

"Because I can't lose you, man. I mean, I get it. I screwed up. That seems to be my lot in life. But don't walk away, not like this." It was time to come clean, once and for all. "I didn't call you, back when we were headed for the final fight, because I wanted to protect you. I needed to protect _someone_. I know that it wasn't fair and I know that it hurt you. But if Sam and I went down in that final fight, I had to know that you weren't going down with us. I had to know that you weren't going to die fighting a battle in war that wasn't even _yours_."

Clint met his gaze then, unwilling understanding in his eyes.

"Because I don't belong in your world, right?" he sighed.

Dean smiled sadly.

"No, you don't. I've spent my whole life trying to protect Sam, but I couldn't protect him from this life. I _could_ protect you, so I did. And I would do it again."

Clint sighed and nodded.

"I get it," he admitted quietly.

But Dean wasn't done.

"And I didn't call you when I came back for the same reason. Yeah, I had a shit storm coming down around me and an angel up my ass, but I made a choice _not_ to call you."

He saw Clint frown at another mention of an 'angel', but his friend let it pass without comment.

"Why?" he asked instead.

Dean quirked his lips.

"Because I knew the second I did, you'd be there. And you were." He motioned vaguely around them. "And I didn't want to pull you back into my life when _I_ didn't even know what the hell was going on."

Clint sighed and looked away. After a long moment, he looked back.

"Why'd you call me tonight?"

And here it was, the part where Dean had to admit that he was as much of an ass as his father had tended to be. Maybe Sam wasn't the only one who had learned the lessons of emotional manipulation a little too well.

"Because I found out Sam's been up to some nasty shit and I just… I don't know what to do," he admitted. "And I knew you'd come."

Clint's eyebrow cocked in vague surprise and then nodded slowly.

"And what? You thought you'd just take all this shit out on me and I'd just let you?"

Dean shrugged helplessly.

"I wasn't _thinking_ , man. It was a shitty thing to do and I'm sorry."

He watched Clint draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, when he met Dean's gaze again, there was unexpected forgiveness in his gaze.

"Hell, huh?" Clint asked.

Dean closed his eyes and let out a relieved breath. Clint was letting him off the hook. He didn't deserve it, but he would gratefully accept it.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"That sucks."

Dean huffed a laugh and nodded.

"You have no idea."

Clint nodded back and glanced over his shoulder, as if hearing a call pitched for his ears alone.

"Come back inside?" Dean tried. "I'll buy you a beer."

Clint looked back at him and shook his head, but the anger in his gaze had tempered.

"I'm coming off a job, Dean. I'm beat and my partner's waiting for me." Clint shrugged a little. "I just wanna go home."

Dean nodded, and accepted his disappointment. It had been overreaching to hope for anything else.

"I didn't deserve this, Dean," Clint said quietly.

Again Dean nodded.

"No," he agreed quietly. "You didn't."

"But I'm not going to hold it against you. After tonight, it doesn't have to be a thing between us. But you've gotta give me tonight, okay? You have to give me tonight to be pissed at you so I can be over it tomorrow."

Dean nodded. It was the best he could hope for, he supposed. Clint was promising forgiveness. He was promising absolution.

Clint nodded back.

"I'll see you around, Dean."

Then Clint was walking away. Dean closed his eyes, biting back the urge to call him back.

When he opened his eyes again, Clint was across the parking lot. Dean watched Natasha Romanoff appear from behind a distant car and fall into step with him, and together they disappeared around a building.

Dean was left standing alone in the parking lot, wondering when he'd stop hurting the people he cared about the most.

* * *

 _hope you enjoyed it! See, I told you guys this wasn't abandoned! I've just got a lot of plates spinning where it comes to fic writing lol (I've got NSAH, the beta job on my long Musketeers fic, the monthly Musketeers challenge, and all the various oneshots and aus i'm playing with in the VPU lol)_

 _Hopefully you all forgive me for the long wait!_

 _You all know I love reviews, so let me know what you think!_


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